


ascent

by kevystel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Magic, Anxiety, Katsudon Bang 2017, M/M, Magical Realism, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Urban Fantasy, like really the slowest, spot the yuzuru hanyu cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-03 03:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10234727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/pseuds/kevystel
Summary: Viktor learns that a full week without Yuuri showing up at Yakov’s, all scraped-wire voice anddouble shot of whatever you have that helps people think, I have a paper to write and I haven’t slept since Saturday, please Viktor!is a good week for Yuuri. A very good week.(magical coffeeshop dancer au)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozarkhowler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozarkhowler/gifts).



> betaed by hellodeer who is wonderful!! the only comment of hers i didn’t take is that there’s quite a bit of pov switching in the later parts, so here’s a heads up if you find that confusing. thank you for the incredible art strangehats, please reblog it from their tumblr ([1](http://strangehats.tumblr.com/post/158506558212), [2](http://strangehats.tumblr.com/post/158506536972), [3](http://strangehats.tumblr.com/post/158506514512)) where you can also see more of their lovely art! and to the anons talking about yuuri with helix piercings in my inbox, check out the third piece
> 
> inspired by [the first vine in this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKSMza3sp2A), [this](http://8pxl.tumblr.com/post/156373329785/) and [this](http://strangelykatie.tumblr.com/post/148675251242). tw for an anxiety attack near the end, and there’s a vague explanation of an injury sustained while dancing in the middle. it’s not graphic but is there as necessary backstory

* * *

**PART ONE**

* * *

A quiet dullness settles over the café at this hour, the damp glow of street-lights buzzing with the clock above the syrup machine that ticks past — two o’clock, and then three, and the night soaks into Viktor’s head. Through the long, dark glass, what little he can see of the pavement glistens with rain. He’s wiped down the counter twice, and then all the tables; this is testament to the thick boredom of his night shifts, since Viktor hardly bothers to even clean up after himself most of the time. Well. When he can get away with it, that is. He’s on the clock now.

Yakov’s café nestles in the crook of a grimy street between clusters of office buildings, a squat animal tucked away on the corner where it can do no harm. It hasn’t got a neighbour on its right-hand side; the front of a small hotel and an Italian restaurant gleam on its left, and a Starbucks had the cheek to install itself down the street, to Yakov’s eternal outrage. The nearest cinema is two blocks away. Minako’s private studio sits fifteen minutes’ walk in the opposite direction. Yakov’s is a twenty-minute walk from the apartment — ten minutes if Viktor walks _fast_ , and shorter still if he manages to catch the last train. When he stands just inside the café’s main entrance, he can make out the silhouettes of street signs on the corner, hunched-over shapes that might be the trash can or the fire hydrant, and — as always — the Morse-code repetitions of traffic lights in the distance, patiently blinking awake for cars that never come.

Viktor doesn’t dare to step outside. But he presses his face to the glass door of the café for as long as he can on these slow summer nights, hands tucked into the pockets of his apron. There isn’t much noise except the whizz of an occasional motorcycle and the muted singing of protective wards on the music store opposite Yakov’s, ready to burst into cacophony if someone ever broke a window. Viktor might try that sometime, depending on how bored he gets. Invariably he ends up cupping his hands at his temples and trying to peer into the darkened storefront facing him, squinting at the outlines of old-fashioned CD racks and shelves he’s never seen in daylight. Then the graffiti on the convenience store next door hisses at him, and Viktor goes back to the counter and checks the power plugs for the hundredth time, and recharges the dispensers that don’t need recharging and talks to himself in Russian, and puts on music sometimes, just because he can.

Tonight, he’s half-asleep at the counter — okay, yes, he’s dozing with his feet on Guang Hong’s favourite stool — when the door tinkles open, and the curling fern that Sara keeps forgetting to water chirps a wavering hello. Viktor comes awake, swinging his legs to the floor.

‘ _A customer_ ,’ says Viktor, delighted.

The customer does not look happy to be greeted in this way. The customer is roughly five foot eight of undone laundry, and too-long dark hair sticking to his ears, and glasses tilting across his nose that look like they were jammed on wrong. Viktor takes one look at him and thinks, _college student_ , and hauls himself to his feet.

College student pushes himself up to the counter and stares at Viktor for perhaps a second longer than necessary before his gaze drags away to the chalkboard above Viktor’s head. He smells of summer heat and sleep-sweat, and this close the hollows of his cheekbones are dark with exhaustion.

‘Do you have —’ says the boy. He sighs. His voice is a soft monotone. ‘Do you have — like, a menu?’

Viktor, blinking, raises a hand wordlessly and points to the chalkboard behind him.

‘No. I don’t… I,’ the boy says, and cuts himself off in quiet exasperation. He looks up, narrowing his eyes at the list of specials inscribed on the board in Sara’s spiky handwriting. Then he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. This does not seem to help him understand the menu any better. ‘Can I get something that… you know, helps people sleep? Do you have something like that?’

Viktor blinks again. ‘Sure.’ He turns and presses the power button on the mixer behind him, and the machine whirrs to life. Yakov’s is a lot busier during the day, or so he’s heard; he’s never had to deal with the legendary lunchtime rush. ‘Flavour?’

‘Um,’ says the boy. When Viktor glances over one shoulder he’s leaning on his elbows, lips slightly parted as he looks down at the menu taped to the countertop. His eyes are already drifting closed. ‘Green tea. Green tea… latte?’

‘Green tea latte. Okay.’ Viktor snaps his fingers to make the syrup dispenser on his left light up. ‘I’ll give you the sleep potion, yes? One shot?’

There’s a rustle of unwashed fabric behind him as the boy shifts his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Yeah. Yeah, and. Extra shot of something calming? I have, um, I have a big presentation tomorrow, and. That would be nice. Yes.’

‘Right,’ Viktor says. He pulls a medium-sized beaker towards himself and squirts the syrups in rapidly, syringing in a mixture of distilled water and honey to neutralise the taste. Then he slots the beaker into its tray inside the mixer, sets the mixer to “foamy” and busies himself with preparing the green tea latte in a tall cup. ‘I assume you’re wanting this to be takeaway?’

At Viktor’s back there is a very soft exhalation, sort of: _please stop asking me questions_. ‘Yes, please.’

‘Hot or iced?’

‘Yes.’

Viktor turns around. The boy jerks upright and seems to shake himself. ‘I mean hot. You — hot. Sorry.’

Viktor dispenses the double shot of potion neatly into the drink, tops it off with steamed milk and slides the cup into its cardboard sleeve. ‘That’ll be five-ninety.’

‘Okay.’ He’s reaching for his drink even before Viktor is done. Viktor could probably overcharge him and he wouldn’t notice, or (more likely) wouldn’t care. Viktor smacks the side of the cash register, which refuses to cooperate after more than two hours of inactivity and sullenly spits out a receipt.

The boy hands over a jumble of coins and notes, then wraps both hands around the fresh, faintly glowing cup and takes a sip. His eyes fall shut. His lashes are very dark. ‘Thank you,’ he murmurs after a moment, apparently realising he’s been standing in front of the counter too long. ‘It’s delicious.’ And he wanders away towards the door as the fern exerts itself to call out a warm goodbye.

* * *

 

* * *

The boy’s name is Yuuri. He’s twenty-three years old, which you wouldn’t know to look at him, considering that he has an air of wary delicacy and looks younger than JJ. He comes in nearly every week, at three or four or (on Mondays) just before dawn — drowsy-eyed and sluggish and asking, usually, for the same brew, with variations on flavour. Viktor learns that a full week without Yuuri showing up at Yakov’s, all scraped-wire voice and _double shot of whatever you have that helps people think, I have a paper to write and I haven’t slept since Saturday, please Viktor!_ is a good week for Yuuri. A very good week.

Those, however, tend to be few and far between. Whatever he’s studying in college, it must be excruciating.

‘You should say hello to the fern,’ Viktor says, disapproving, as he rinses out the beaker. The suds washing down the drain have changed from violet to cream to a rich bronze colour. ‘It tries its best.’

‘Oh,’ says Yuuri. He looks blankly at Viktor over the top of his espresso-and-charisma. He’s curled up in the window seat next to the counter, watching the sky flush rose-gold as morning creeps up on the skyline. ‘I’ll do that on my way out.’

Outside, the city is gradually coming to life. A few lights in the apartment block near Viktor’s window have already come on, and a flutter of bicycles overhead marks the beginning of the newspaper route. Yuuri, in the infant daylight, looks even smaller, even as the window sharpens him into the long reality of finely muscled legs and a slight roughness of stubble on his jaw.

‘What’s this for, anyway?’ Viktor goes round the counter to straighten the tables and chairs before Guang Hong and Emil come in for the morning shift. They’ve settled into a rhythm of Mondays and Thursdays, which are Yuuri’s worst days, and Viktor is reluctant to close up if Yuuri doesn’t appear by the end of his shift — even if this means dealing with JJ, the delivery boy who brings in the day’s stock. ‘It’s not your usual order.’

Yuuri leans back in his chair to give Viktor room. He pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘I have something to do today. I just needed some courage, that’s all.’

‘Oh?’ Viktor raises his eyebrows. ‘Are you asking someone out?’

‘No!’ Yuuri comes alive when he flushes; his cheeks heat and his eyes grow wide. ‘It’s work-related! It’s… I don’t do it very often. I’ve never had a boyfriend or girlfriend, at any rate.’

Viktor trips over the word _boyfriend_ and catches his balance on the edge of a chair. Yuuri, thankfully, doesn’t notice. The empty café is soft and peaceful in the dawn, and the morning crowd — office workers, women in crisp business suits — only builds up around seven. Still, Yuuri peels himself away from the window once he’s finished his drink, reluctantly. He leaves his scarlet-stained coffee cup on the counter for Viktor, slips back into his coat and scarf, and leaves through the door as quietly as he came in. He does give the fern a pat in farewell, though.

The sun is up just enough to cast the buildings into relief by the time Viktor starts his long walk back. The first cars are beginning to slide into the streets, and the cat painted over a stairwell bares its teeth at Viktor as he walks by. Viktor hisses back. He’s got a marble, new, and he jingles it in his pocket while he walks, feeling it warm and glow apricot-orange in his palm. He doesn’t need the safety charm now that the sky is bright; he touches it out of habit, a comfort. In the distance, the dome-shaped roof of the arena glistens cool and distinctive, a hand’s breadth away from the cathedral. He has to teach his feet not to carry him there. Old routines are hard to break.

He should really be saving up to move out, thinks Viktor as he thinks every morning, wrapping his fingers around the doorknob till the key-charm clicks into place and the door swings open with a whistle. But Chris is so nice and they’re on such good terms after their split, and housing is expensive in this city. He hangs up his coat beside the door and goes into the tiny kitchen, pulling his flask of charging potion from the cupboard and giving it a good shake. He’s not as tired as he could be. He hasn’t been using much magic these days — oh, well, Viktor’s stamina isn’t the best. He puts the kettle on to boil for Chris’ coffee, and dips the copper wire into his flask till it heats under his fingers. He leans against the kitchen counter and closes his eyes.

‘You have _got_ to get out of here, Vitya,’ says Mila, the girl who delivers his mail. Viktor leaves the door open for her and lets Makkachin go running out to take the letters in his mouth. In the charging flask, the clear blue liquid has begun to spark and bubble, and Viktor hastily unclips the band around his wrist. ‘When my ex-boyfriend cheated on me, I hexed him so he couldn’t get it up for a month!’

‘But Chris didn’t cheat on me,’ Viktor says, a little bit helplessly. He sorts through his mail on the kitchen table and drops Minako’s formal invitation to the Festival of Lights into the trash.

* * *

Viktor knows when Yuuri’s finals are near because Yuuri starts coming in every night like clockwork, the curve of his hands frantic, laughing a little and letting his eyes linger on the hollow of Viktor’s throat. He’s not the only customer Viktor remembers by sight. Yakov’s has plenty of daytime regulars, and there’s another boy — Seung-gil — who appears at random hours, taciturnly demanding, like he never has to go to class or sleep. But Yuuri is predictable. Yuuri has a routine that swings and swells with the course of the semester, and one can’t help getting used to it.

‘Are you sure you should be drinking this, Yuuri?’ Viktor asks, leaning across the counter to grasp Yuuri’s wrists. ‘You’ve been taking it daily for nearly two weeks now. You’ll build up immunity.’

‘It’s okay. I don’t need it to work all that well.’ Yuuri sniffles. He takes off his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose, and — oh, he’s very pretty without his glasses. ‘I just need to feel like I’ve done something about this. I know it’s not a cure-all. Do you know what I mean?’

Viktor bites his lip. ‘I know.’ He looks over Yuuri’s shoulder for a second, and then gestures at one of the nearest chairs. ‘Pull up a chair. Sit for a while. I’ll fix you something. On the house.’

‘With the shot I asked for?’ says Yuuri, obeying Viktor, but instantly suspicious. With his back turned, Viktor sighs. He can’t get anything past Yuuri. He takes down a clean glass and wonders whether his illusion skills are too rusty for pretending to add a shot of extra-strong calmness potion to Yuuri’s iced chocolate.

‘Tell you what.’ Viktor shakes out a damp cloth and swabs at the honey stains on the underside of the mixer. The syrup machine has gone dead, but all the dispensers are coded to the employees’ magic licenses for safety reasons, and Viktor only has to hover his palm over the panel for a few seconds before the light flickers on. ‘Tell me something nice that happened to you this month, and I’ll give it to you. Either way you’ll get a drink, though. Don’t worry.’

Seated in the wicker chair beside the counter, Yuuri clears his throat thickly. Viktor opens his empty palm over the saucepan and lets heat seep out of it, and with Viktor concentrating all he can, the chocolate melts in seconds. He pours in the milk and considers adding a sprinkling of cinnamon. Behind him, he can feel Yuuri breathing.

Viktor waits.

‘Nothing?’

‘I have a spell drunk-tattooed on my ass,’ says Yuuri.

There’s a pause. ‘O-okay, Yuuri,’ Viktor says, turning around with the ice scoop in his hand. ‘What kind of spell?’

Yuuri hiccups. His eyes are slightly red. ‘It lets me know when there’s a dog in my vicinity.’

‘That’s a nice spell to have.’

‘ _No, it’s not_ , Viktor,’ says Yuuri, taking a deep breath. He rubs his nose. ‘It… like, it tingles, whenever there are dogs around, but it doesn’t tell me exactly _where_ , and sometimes there’s more than one dog, so I see one but it keeps on tingling and I look around but I can’t _find_ any —’

Viktor gives him the shot.

* * *

Then there’s a stretch of two weeks when Yuuri doesn’t come in at all, and those two weeks lengthen into three, and then a month. Viktor wonders. He stands at the glass door and strains for the patter of footsteps on the pavement outside, but all there is to hear is the heaviness of midnight. He’s fooling himself that there’s familiarity in the sound, in any case. Yuuri comes in so softly that the first clue to his presence is their fern rustling awake.

‘Maybe he’s having a lot of very good weeks,’ Viktor tells Makkachin, sitting on the floor of his bedroom and massaging his feet. Makkachin sniffs at the curve of Viktor’s calf, trying to rub the pain away from force of habit; Viktor puts his hand on Makkachin’s head and gently moves him aside. The fracture is almost completely healed. ‘I hope he is.’

Viktor sleeps in during the daytime after his shifts, rolling out of bed around five o’clock to get dressed and take Makkachin for his walk and eat at the Mexican diner next door, scrolling through his phone while Makkachin pants happily at his feet. It’s a good life, except when Viktor wakes up to Chris having loud sex through the bedroom walls on a Sunday afternoon.

‘I need to move out. I’m moving out tomorrow,’ says Viktor as he sits on the edge of his bed, burying his face in Makkachin’s fur. ‘I’m leaving. Yakov will take me in. I will live on the _streets_ , Makkachin.’

Makkachin, who has heard these pronouncements multiple times and knows that nothing ever comes of them, looks sympathetic.

 

* * *

  **PART TWO**

* * *

Although the air outside their building is bracingly cold, Yuuri can feel heat radiating from the apartment before he walks through the door. Yuuri sighs. His license is about to expire and he’s not sure Phichit ever had one in the first place. Yuuri gets into a lot of places he wouldn’t otherwise go, like the skytrain and the tech centre for this year’s Festival of Lights, simply because he feels guilty about not using the clearance code stamped on the back of his hand in invisible ink as often as he could. If he doesn’t renew his magic license by the end of this year, he might never get to use it again. The safety regulations exist for a reason — to protect the city’s residents who are too young for flying at dizzying heights, or clapping their hands in a set rhythm to make pavements light up when they’re scared of the dark, or painting speed runes onto their cars that nobody irresponsible should know. Yuuri, honestly, prefers to walk.

He can smell the mixture simmering on Leo’s little camp stove as soon as he comes in: spiced leaves and charcoal and, unpleasantly, a whiff of damp parchment. Already sweating under his collar from the warm, inky smoke, Yuuri shrugs off his coat and pokes his head into the kitchen, wrinkling his nose. Phichit isn’t there. Yuuri goes to the sink and fills a glass with cool water from the tap. Then he jumps as the chalk outline of a very large hamster climbs out of the cupboard, nuzzling Yuuri’s knee in greeting. It is combing its translucent ears with its feet in a way Yuuri is sure real rodents can’t do. Yuuri breathes in. He reaches out to pet the hamster’s head. His fingers go right through its shape.

He finds them lying on the floor of the living room. Phichit giggles, and Leo raises his left hand and waggles his fingers hello without turning his head to look at Yuuri. Yuuri takes another drink from his water glass and puts it down on the table.

‘What are you guys doing?’

‘I made lunch,’ Phichit says, flipping over onto his stomach to grin up at Yuuri. ‘You want some? It’s in the fridge, just heat it up — the container’s microwave-safe.’

‘It’s okay. I ate before coming home.’ Yuuri gets down on his hands and knees, and then stretches out on the floor between Phichit and the stove. It’s amazing how much slick, nutmeg-scented warmth can leak out of one little spot in their apartment. Technically the place belongs to Yuuri and Phichit, though it might as well be Leo’s too, considering that he practically lives on their couch. Leo rolls over and props himself up on his elbows, pulling another stick of coloured chalk from the open box. ‘Did you remember to put on a noise-cancelling spell?’

Phichit laughs. ‘We’re not doing anything all that wild, Yuuri! Don’t worry.’ He nudges Leo’s shoulder. ‘Draw a poodle next, for Yuuri!’

‘Okay,’ says Leo, pushing his hair out of his face. He looks sidelong at Yuuri, his dark eyes soft and knowing. ‘Where’d you have lunch? Same place?’

‘Yeah, the usual.’ Yuuri went down to the arena this morning for tech training backstage, then spent half an hour sunning himself at the charging station in the fountain square — eating a hot sandwich with his chilly fingers, luxuriously idle. The rubber-coated zinc band is dimpled from the touch of many fingertips, and some of the copper wires trailing from the big public cauldron are frayed, since people tend to forget they’re hooked up to a power source and walk away while looking at their phones. ‘I’m working the evening shift at the music store tonight.’

Leo smiles. ‘Did you see your hot barista?’

‘I don’t have a hot barista.’

Both Leo and Phichit snort. Leo adds the finishing touches to his chalk drawing and the dog peels away from the floorboards, wrestling itself under Yuuri’s arm with a soft _wuff_ of contentment. Yuuri’s heart catches in his throat. They haven’t been plugged into the power network for a week — since some necromancer two floors up blew the building’s main circuit — and they probably won’t be until the landlady fixes it next month. Phichit has a portable charger, though, and Yuuri’s good at saving his magic’s battery life. Yuuri lies back on the cool floor, putting the back of his hand against his eyelids. The smoke may be getting to his head.

‘You ought to go to Yakov’s again soon,’ says Phichit fondly, brushing his fingers across Yuuri’s temple. ‘Before you’re too busy with Lightsfest —’ their shorter, easier name for the Festival of Lights, which draws tourists from all over the region, ‘— to even think about getting coffee.’

Yuuri doesn’t go to Yakov’s for the coffee, but he nods.

* * *

If Yakov’s across the street is irregular, filling with intimidating crowds at mealtimes and eerily silent at other hours, the dream music store is steady. A thin but devoted flow of patrons, and the odd stranger coming in to browse. This suits Yuuri. He cleans the shelves and fixes the flash drives customers bring in, complaining about damage ( _you have to keep them in a cool, dry place_ , he reminds Georgi). He creates new tracks on the computer when he’s having a slow day, sorting them by genre and category. They have dreamers — the ones with real dreams, which tell a story — and mood-setters, which are milder and kinder and less complicated to produce. Like a rose-petal fragrance instead of strong incense. Those are the closest to mundanes (tracks without magic) that the music store has. And Yuuri isn’t sure a few songs in his own library _don’t_ have some kind of magic in their beats, with how they never fail to make him smile or get his blood moving.

Leo brings in mundane tracks that he’s spliced together himself, a wild ingenious variety of Spanish rap and remixes and jazz oldies (as Leo is a hipster who even does old-school conjuring sometimes). Yuuri edits them right then and there. They have a lot of regulars like Leo — special requests for services. Leo is Phichit’s friend from high school, and Guang Hong who works at Yakov’s is _Leo’s_ friend, which is how Phichit and Yuuri know Guang Hong. The floor of the music store’s main room is cream-coloured, polished wood that smells musty and reminds Yuuri incurably of a dance studio. There’s an open space between the shelves, and whenever Otabek notices Yuuri getting that itch in his feet, he smiles and puts on some orchestral piece that makes Yuuri do pirouettes across the store. Yuuri drops out of his arabesque and blushes all the way down his neck the first time he sees Sara, a water dancer herself, watching him use the counter as a barre from the window of Yakov’s. Sara just laughs and gives him a thumbs-up.

After his shift, Yuuri leaves Otabek to lock up and walks over to Yakov’s for late dinner and a drink. His heart sinks a little when he sees Guang Hong behind the register, but he waves.

‘Listen, Yuuri,’ Guang Hong says, taking pity on him while Yuuri stares glumly at his mocha frappé and oven-baked pastries. He wishes he had his mother’s katsudon recipe. It’s no use, though; he doesn’t have enough money for the _literal_ magic ingredient. ‘I’ll make this easier for you. Viktor only works the night shift.’

Yuuri looks up in alarm and hides his flush behind the paper napkin. Is he that transparent? From the café’s side entrance, the delivery guy laughs at him.

‘Katsuki!’ No one calls Yuuri by his last name except JJ. Yuuri wonders if this is some kind of masculine initiation rite. ‘Why don’t I just give you his number?’

‘You have his number?’ Sara demands, launching herself over the counter in a single sweep that takes Yuuri’s breath away. ‘Nobody I know has Viktor’s number!’

JJ smirks and whips out his phone, adjusting his cap with the other hand. The veins of JJ’s left wrist are dotted with distinctive little pockmarks, which come from injecting diluted charging potion directly into the bloodstream while you’re on the go. It’s a bit dangerous, and downright illegal unless you’re working a high-speed job like JJ’s. ‘Here! I asked him for his number eight months ago and he actually gave it to me! You’re welcome, Katsuki. Bask in it.’

‘ _Eight months?_ ’ shouts Guang Hong from the opposite end of the café. Sara’s twin brother Michele, who hangs around Yakov’s whenever she’s on the clock, glances up from his laptop in annoyance. ‘And you never told us?’

JJ leans across the table and thrusts his phone into Yuuri’s face. Yuuri winces. He’s _not_ going to remember it, because texting Viktor out of the blue would just be creepy, and — then Sara pokes her head over Yuuri’s shoulder and studies the contact information for one “Viktor Nikiforov” on JJ’s phone screen. She sighs.

‘JJ,’ says Sara, patting Yuuri consolingly, ‘that’s a phone sex hotline.’

JJ looks heartbroken. Yuuri breathes out. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

Yuuri takes another sip of his frappé. It’s a perfectly ordinary drink, nothing special added, and he knows the potions are designed to be flavour-neutral but he can’t help feeling like it tastes a little bit different. Sara sweeps the crumbs from Yuuri’s pastry into her apron and whisks away, her twin calling after her: ‘ _How do you know that’s the number of a phone sex hotline?_ ’

* * *

The control room sits just above the VIP seats at the top of the dome, and a sticky chemical scent like broken glowsticks or fireworks wafts upwards from the carpet. It tickles Yuuri’s nostrils, but he gets used to it after a while. Through the window in front of him, he can see the full glory of the arena beneath them: the sleek, shining wood of walls and floor and ceiling, the strings of lights hanging overhead which he’ll have to operate.

‘We’re not starting rehearsals for another month and a half, as you know,’ says Minako, the director, behind him. She’s a retired light dancer herself, and co-founder of this company along with Lilia Baranovskaya. Yuuri shivers at the idea that she’s deigned to come instruct him in person. ‘This is just ordinary practice time. You can use it to get familiar with the sound and lights system. We can’t risk any mishaps at the Festival — there are safety spells and they’ll be wearing foot-guards, of course, but it’s still dangerous. Anything can happen.’

Yuuri swallows. ‘I-I’ll remember that.’ He puts the headphones over his ears and lets his fingers drift over the button panel for a long moment. When he opens his eyes, Minako has vanished. She’s down in one of the aisles now, giving crisp directions to another technician.

Yuuri rubs his palms together, warming them up in the musty air-conditioning. _This one goes here, and this bulb is blue, and this one red, and they need to be in sync with the music…_ He wraps his hand around the master lever and pushes it forward, tongue between his teeth. There’s a shudder underneath his palm and a translucent half-sphere snaps into place above the control panel, a perfect miniature replica of the arena. Yuuri lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He touches a fingertip to the surface of the sphere. It creases like lightning around the contact, and he feels a spark of electricity as power shoots out of his finger and into the hologram, which flushes with colour. Yuuri grins.

‘Hey!’ somebody snaps in Yuuri’s headphones. ‘I said I want my music now!’

Yuuri flinches. ‘Sorry,’ he says into the microphone, and pushes the hologram sphere aside with his left hand for later reference. He rolls his swivel chair over to the computer and clicks play.

There are two boys around the same age in the arena this afternoon: one with a streak of red like dyed fire in his hair, and a taller, long-limbed boy who reminds Yuuri of a small tiger. The second boy is the one who’s practising now. His movements are harsh and impressive, if a little bit graceless; he somersaults through the air with raw abandon that closes up Yuuri’s throat. The lines of his body contort, inhuman and inhumanly flexible. From this distance, Yuuri can’t make out the expression on his face, but he can almost feel the boy gritting his teeth as his palms heat up and begin to glow. He touches off the steps built into the domeside with one precisely extended foot, and then launches into another spin in a burst of rose-coloured flame, clusters of sparks bursting into existence and steaming in the circle he draws around himself.

His music wouldn’t be out of place in a thunderstorm. Yuuri’s fingers are beginning to tap. Yuuri pulls the hologram back towards himself, studying the structural design, the paler threads where lightbulbs and speakers are strung up like stars. He can already see where he’ll switch the colours of the bulbs to match the intense patter of the piano, the slow luxury of strings — and, oh, a pinwheel explosion wouldn’t be out of place here, just here. Yuuri looks up from his notes. There’s an indistinct muttering in his headphones, and he frowns. The boy must not be comfortable with wordless magic yet — he’s too young — for Yuuri can hear him reciting the sequence under his breath. _Left foot, white, purple, red, spin, single — no, double, triple —_

‘Yuri!’ shouts the instructor from the aisle. Yuuri jerks to attention automatically. But he’s speaking to the dancer, who has slipped out of his upward climb and plummets for an awful second before the foot-guards kick in. A cushion of air pops into place just below Yuri’s spiralling figure, floating him gently to the floor. ‘You don’t need to add so many consecutive jumps! Your body’s not ready for that!’

‘Come _on_ , Celestino,’ says Yuri, now gluing himself to the wall and walking stubbornly up it till he’s hanging upside down from the curved ceiling, his arms folded. ‘I can do this.’

The other boy is sitting on the ledge midway up the side of the dome, his legs dangling over empty air, watching this exchange in silent awe. Celestino cups his hands over his mouth and calls up to Yuri: ‘What’s the point of having such a long jump combination without touching down? Three in a row is more than enough!’

‘Vitya can do four!’

‘It’s not a competition, Yuri,’ yells Celestino.

* * *

Living in the shadow of Hasetsu Light Dance & Ballet has trained Yuuri to attune himself to the arena, re-orienting himself around its location like some infatuated moth. The company’s just back from its world tour, and its dancers are diverse enough (Russian, Japanese, American, French) to make Yuuri’s chest ache. He isn’t tired, although his feet feel heavy on the sidewalk as he trudges home in the dusk. It’s a shock to emerge blinking up at the setting sun, fresh from the spectacle of popping, smoking light inside the arena and into the brilliant fire on the horizon.

The sky looks kind, somehow; its graceful blue-grey drapes over the low buildings in Yuuri’s narrow streets, the cinema, the restaurants opening for dinnertime. The wind’s cold yet gentle. He pulls the inner fold of his scarf up over his nose and mouth, eyes cast downwards.

There are different kinds of arenas that vary with the whims of the architects who designed them. The one in Chicago, apparently, doubles as a stadium. The Tokyo Light Palace is mirrored floor to ceiling, like a ballet studio doubled in on itself. It’s stunning for the audience and twice the challenge for dancers, who confuse themselves with their reflections while they’re performing. Already the dancers are required to wear foot-guards, as well as gloves to protect their hands, and take vitamin supplements and protective charms to safeguard their eyesight against the insatiable burn of the lights. That’s still not enough, not all the time. Accidents happen.

It’s worth it.

Yuuri follows his feet to the hotspot in front of the cinema, where he knows Leo will be finishing up for the day. Here, they’re sitting on a surviving bubble of the ley-line, which flushes raw power from the ground up and injects breathtaking life into the street illusionists’ tricks. The air crackles with energy. Yuuri stands over Leo’s prone figure as the other boy scribbles frantic detail into the nostrils of a stylised horse, lying on his stomach with his legs waving in the air. Yuuri makes to clear his throat. Leo notices him before he can do that.

‘Yuuri!’ Leo sits up from the completed drawing with a sigh of satisfaction. His blue chalk’s worn down to a stub; he’ll need fresh supplies. Behind him, the horse clatters upright onto the pavement, snorting out a first exquisite breath which steams the air. The little girl Leo’s created it for claps her hands in delight. The horse — which is no bigger than a German shepherd — prances over to the girl and her mother, all finely frosted bones like a da Vinci invention. It takes the apple from her outstretched hand and crunches. The apple disappears into thin air, but Yuuri can see the creature’s throat moving as it swallows.

‘You want something too?’ Leo brushes his long hair back from his forehead. There’s a spattering of light snow on his shoulders. ‘I’m just about to wrap up —’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Yuuri coughs into his hand. He fishes in his pocket for the change from this morning’s ramen, comes up with a handful of coins, and drops them into the hat. Leo nods his thanks. ‘I’ve still got your poodle. It’s beautiful — thank you.’

‘It’ll fade by tomorrow morning,’ Leo tells him, voice full of regret. ‘On your way home?’

‘Yeah. Do you want to get dinner together?’

‘Please.’ Leo brightens. He gets to his feet and brushes himself off, then sets about packing up his supplies. Yuuri doesn’t help because he has no idea where anything goes. Leo leads him in the direction of their favourite diner, humming tunelessly with his hands in his pockets. ‘How was rehearsal?’

‘It wasn’t a real rehearsal,’ Yuuri explains. ‘I just messed around with the system, watched the dancers run through their solo items. It was…’ He hesitates. ‘Stunning. Amazing.’

Leo nods. Yuuri waits for him to bring the conversation round to the expected topic; but Leo’s a lot more cautious than Phichit. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Phichit and Leo are both still in college. Instead, Leo’s eyes spark with mischief and he asks, ‘Did you see Viktor?’

‘Who?’

Leo tilts his head at Yuuri, unimpressed, as they enter the subway station. ‘Your hot barista.’

Yuuri has given up trying to renounce any claim on Viktor as his hot barista. ‘No, I didn’t. Why would he be there?’

Leo stops walking right in front of the station map. Yuuri puts a hand on Leo’s shoulder to guide him forward before they get swallowed by the evening crowd. Leo turns to stare at Yuuri.

‘He’s a light dancer too. Didn’t you know?’

‘What,’ says Yuuri, while they wedge themselves onto the escalator. ‘I… what?’

Leo looks at him for a long moment, dark eyes thoughtful.

‘I forgot you don’t go to Lightsfest every year. I… okay, I wasn’t there, I was buying stuff in the artists’ alley or something. But I heard about it afterwards. It happened during his solo routine last year, after the third group item. He… went up too high, snagged his foot on one of the overhead lights. And the foot-guards — one of them didn’t work, nobody knows _how_ they let that slide, the air cushion was unbalanced, the angle was off. He fell.’

Yuuri’s hands have curled themselves into fists in his coat pockets. He lets them slowly unclench, blinking in surprise at himself. The wet-bathroom smell of the station prickles at the back of his neck. His mouth parts on his _oh_.

The train whistles to a stop at the platform.

‘At least the other foot-guard was functional,’ says Leo, shrugging. They step onto the train together. ‘Could’ve been worse. He could’ve died.’

 

* * *

**PART THREE**

* * *

It’s late into the night and Yuuri’s head is brimming over with itching rhythms and fears and thoughts of the college diploma he mailed to his parents for safekeeping, and _what am I going to do now_ , and he gets out of bed. His vision blurs. Careful not to wake Phichit, who sleeps lightly in the next room, he tiptoes down the darkened hallway and picks up the bulging bag of dirty clothes stuffed into a corner beside the shoe rack. He might as well do their laundry while he’s awake. Phichit has a morning lecture tomorrow.

Yuuri walks less than two blocks to the laundromat. It doesn’t take him long. Yuuri is not afraid of the darkness, having spent more hours than he cares to count walking and running in the dead of night. Still, he closes his fingers around the amulet hanging from his neck. The anchor-shaped token lets out a low, soothing hum that reverberates into his chest, and he knows it’s beginning to shimmer cool and silver in the dip of his collarbone, vibrating with suppressed power. A danger sign. A warning to anything that might be lurking beyond the shade of the trees and lamp-posts.

The laundromat is deserted. Yuuri empties his and Phichit’s laundry into the machine furthest from the doorway, sits down on the grimy tiles and rests his forehead on his knees. The water filling the machine turns from a trickle into a flood, and the whirring noise startles Yuuri, then comforts him.

He’s thinking about — the stinging of his soles after long hours in the studio of his childhood, and the way his palms tingle for lingering minutes after he releases long comet-like streaks of blossoming, vivid, liquid colour. He’s thinking about little imperious Yuri Plisetsky with his defiant jumps and brave falls, and the thrill of performing in an arena packed with people, and he wants and he _wants_ , even as the thought terrifies him.

‘Forget it,’ Yuuri says aloud, into the deathly silence. His load of laundry won’t be done for a while yet. ‘I’m going to Yakov’s.’

He follows the tug of the ley-line underneath his worn-out sneakers, veering off only when the shadowy outlines of the music store and the hotel loom up before him. At this time, the early snow on the moonlit sidewalk has been trodden into slush. The lights are on inside Yakov’s, and Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief.

He closes his eyes. He pushes the door open.

‘Yuuri!’ exclaims a very familiar voice from the back of the café, and Yuuri’s pulse snags in his ribcage. He forces his eyes open, even as he wants to stay here and fall asleep and be here forever. Viktor’s wiping down the coffee machine with a damp rag, a clean apron tied around his waist, and — oh, he’s got a lovely voice, lightly accented and so, so smooth. Yuuri takes off his jacket and sinks into a chair beside the window. He lets himself rest his head on his hand. Viktor snaps the machine’s lid back into place and levitates the whole thing with a flicking motion of his left hand, using the same rag to scrub vigorously at the stains on the countertop underneath. He continues working, even as he calls over his shoulder:

‘I haven’t seen you in a while! Where have you been?’

‘I, um. I graduated from college?’ says Yuuri, distracted by the long line of Viktor’s back. ‘And… I’m, I’m working at the music store across the street, now. You should come visit sometime.’

‘Maybe I will.’ Viktor’s smile is blinding. Yuuri tries not to dwell on how effortless he makes magic look, summoning the spray bottle from across the café — it’s sitting innocuously on one of the furthest tables, and then Viktor extends one arm and curls his fingers inwards without even looking. Yuuri has officially lost his license. He knows that Phichit — who learned to fly _and_ drive in Bangkok, where you can’t move three feet in any direction (vertical or horizontal) without hitting a tourist — doesn’t care about such _details_. But the absence of his clearance code gnaws a hole in Yuuri’s sternum. He doesn’t need it. He can go on without it. It’s convenient to have one, that’s all.

‘Do you need anything?’ asks Viktor, turning back to the counter with the spray bottle still in his hand. He sets down the rag and smiles at Yuuri. Yuuri bites his lip. ‘I trust that life is treating you better now you’re out of college.’

‘Oh. Um.’ Yuuri looks away, trying to think of an excuse for coming here. He wonders about taking the opening Viktor has clearly left him; but he’s never been good at articulating his thoughts at the best of times, let alone on nights like these. ‘Could I get one of your fruit teas, actually? Nothing added to it. Just… ordinary.’

‘Really?’ Viktor’s smile widens, although Yuuri didn’t think that was possible. He turns his head to click his tongue at the kettle, which promptly begins to sing. ‘You don’t need potion?’

‘Yeah. How much will it cost?’

Viktor hums, bending down to shake out the teabags beneath the counter. ‘You can get it for free.’ The top of his head appears so he can shoot Yuuri a meaningful glance. His hair’s falling into his eyes. ‘Don’t tell Yakov.’

‘I’ve never met Yakov,’ says Yuuri, helpless before the happy buzz of the machines. He gives up trying to resist and gets out of his seat to shift to a table nearer the cash register. ‘You didn’t ask me what I wanted specifically.’

‘I’ll surprise you.’ Viktor shovels ice into a tall glass and wedges a slice of lemon onto the rim. Yuuri rests one elbow on the counter and watches him; the white noise in Yuuri’s head quietens. He feels safe. Viktor doesn’t look startled to find him there, just rewards Yuuri with a look warm with pleasure.

Yuuri takes a risk. He’s been wondering — Viktor’s features are fine and his cheekbones sharp, and the hair is platinum-blond surely but it looks almost grey under the fluorescent lights. ‘How old are you?’

‘Hmm? Twenty-seven.’ That’s a little older than Yuuri guessed. Viktor slides the glass of iced tea towards him. His fingers brush Yuuri’s wrist when Yuuri reaches out to take it. ‘I never went to college.’

Yuuri lifts the glass to his nose before taking a sip and inhales its fragrance deeply, running his tongue over the back of his teeth. He can remember the gruelling burn of his ballet training, and Lilia Baranovskaya’s school is renowned worldwide. He thinks he’d be a different person today if he’d decided to go pro. He swallows hard. Pushes himself forward, pushes himself into another question:

‘I got a job as a tech at the Festival of Lights this year,’ he says. Viktor watches him, patient. ‘I’m in charge of the main sound and lights system. You’re not performing?’

‘No,’ replies Viktor easily, pulling a tall stool towards himself so he can sit down. There’s only the smooth expanse of the countertop between them now. He cocks his head; the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘The pay’s good, if you’re wondering.’

He wasn’t. ‘Oh, I know.’ Yuuri swirls the liquid in his glass and looks down. The tea tastes wonderful when it’s freshly brewed, cooling around the ice cubes. He’s been curious about this for a while: the lines of Viktor’s body underneath the apron are refined and strong, and he moves with an odd grace, not unlike the way Yuuri unconsciously defaults to a perfect second position. Now everything makes sense.

He’s searched “viktor nikiforov” and come up with shaky YouTube videos of past Lightsfests, filmed on iPhones and cut off at inconvenient points, or partly obscured by smoke and the heads of the crowd. Yuuri supposes this is what happens when the only legal recordings of Hasetsu productions sell for more than he can afford.

It’s more than a little frustrating.

Viktor follows the direction of his gaze. ‘Is it good?’

Yuuri takes a moment to realise Viktor’s talking about the tea. He lets himself smile back.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ducking his head to reassure himself with another long swallow from the glass, ‘yeah.’

* * *

Viktor’s leg hasn’t pained him in months. Really, it’s _fine_. He’s burned through enough poultices and bone marrow salves to stock an apothecary’s office. He stayed in shape, of course, during the long bitter season when Hasetsu was away touring without him — stretches, sit-ups, anything that didn’t put too much stress on his ankle — but spring was long gone by the time he felt safe going for runs again. Only in the middle of autumn did Cao Bin and Anya come to drag him back to the arena by force. In the meantime Viktor went to his old ballet teacher, Lilia, who gave him a few curt words of consolation and the address of a physiotherapist. Her ex-husband gave him a job.

It hurts putting on his foot-guards. It hurts watching Yuri attempt the combination that Viktor couldn’t pull off. He still goes to practices.

‘It’s too late to slot you into the group items,’ Minako tells him, hand on his shoulder. ‘But I’ll keep an opening for you among the soloists. I’ve spoken to Lilia. You just have to let us know. I know you can do it, Vitya. There’s time.’

Viktor smiles. He nods. He steps off the ledge set deep into the inner curve of the dome and lets himself fall.

Viktor plunges for three agonising instants before the burst of heavy air breaks his momentum. He inhales, gasping, and pulls himself upright. He’s slowly teaching himself to expect this. Time and practice will retrain him out of the instinctive sense of vertigo. God, it’s like being a beginner all over again.

He propels himself to the steps winding round the dome and stands on the topmost one, lifting his foot casually above his head.

‘I’m coming up there!’ Yuri shouts beneath him. Most of their conversations go like this: Yuri calling up to him from below, or Viktor standing on the floor while Yuri dangles, unnecessarily, from the ceiling. Either way there is a lot of yelling involved.

Yuri jumps. He catches hold of the first barre, set low enough for any novice to touch in a single leap, swings his way up to the second, and blasts halfway across the arena. Yuri hovers at Viktor’s eye-level now, keeping himself aloft through enormous childhood-trained strength and also, possibly, sheer spite.

Viktor raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Do you feel like doing any more work today?’

‘Don’t even ask,’ Yuri snorts. He twists backwards into a bouncy little series of steps, the steel-studded shanks of his foot-guards releasing puffs of warm air. ‘Help me with my jumps. C’mon.’

‘Hmm.’ Viktor puts a finger against his mouth. ‘I think you should concentrate more on your step sequence, Yurochka.’

‘My step sequence is fine!’

‘You don’t get more pay if you injure yourself during a performance, you know,’ Viktor tells him dryly.

Yuri kicks upwards, clawing at the air with his fingers to give himself more height. Viktor easily lifts himself to float just slightly above Yuri.

‘So I won’t.’ Yuri clenches his teeth and does a neat quad, and then a triple. He’s not adding the lights yet, which Viktor thinks is wise of him; some of Yuri’s colours are still shaky. ‘Injure myself.’

Viktor snaps his fingers and sends a few white-gold sparks hurtling Yuri’s way. Yuri huffs out his cheeks and blows a tiny burst of flame right back. ‘Don’t worry.’ Viktor is not quite ready to step away from the security of the domeside. He keeps one arm extended behind himself, feeling his fingertips barely brush the wood. ‘I’ll make sure your grandfather knows when you’re on, right down to the minute. The _second_.’

‘Why don’t you sit beside him and watch?’

‘Celestino!’ Viktor shouts, cupping his palm beside his mouth. ‘He’s picking on me!’

‘I doubt that,’ Celestino calls back, laughing. He’s sitting beside Minako in the aisle, one foot propped on his knee, watching this display with enjoyment. They seem to be _drinking_. Viktor makes a face at them which they definitely can’t see.

Then the blunt edge of Yuri’s foot-guard slams into his shoulder. Viktor whirls around to find Yuri coolly using Viktor as an anchor to push himself off, spiralling further towards the centre of the dome. Viktor hisses and shoots after Yuri. He doesn’t realise he’s pushed off the domeside with his palm till he’s a good ten feet from the steps.

‘This is my first year as a soloist and it’s going to be perfect.’ Yuri crosses his arms over his chest, sharp eyes narrowed. ‘Come on, Vitya. You know how it feels.’

Viktor pauses. He glances down — at the dark expanse of freshly shined wooden flooring far beneath him, at Minako and Celestino who look very small from this height. Yuri is keeping his gaze fixed on Viktor’s face.

Viktor smiles.

‘Fine, then.’ He sets one hand on his hip, in the pose that never fails to frustrate Yuri, and sees Yuri’s eyes glint in recognition. ‘Show me your best shot at this piece. The full version, with lights. Pretend you’re in the middle of the Festival. I will point out every flaw there is to spot.’

Yuri smacks his palms together to get a flicker of smoke rising between them. He sinks down to just the right height and readies his starting pose, face dark with concentration. Shifting upwards to get a better view, Viktor waves at the control booth — Minami is doubling up in their usual tech’s absence — and jerks his thumb towards the overhead lights.

‘Just a second!’ comes Minami’s voice over the intercom. ‘Your music’s ready, let me find the lightbulb sequence… he’s got it written down here somewhere —’

‘Got it?’ asks Yuri, managing to tap his foot impatiently without a solid surface to tap it against.

‘Yes!’

‘Okay,’ Yuri yells. ‘Light it up!’

* * *

Makkachin’s waiting for Viktor outside, leashed to a fire hydrant though that sorely isn’t necessary. He’s been sleeping with his head tucked on his paws, his fur a thick coat against the brittle November air; his ears swivel when Viktor approaches the pavement and he bounds to his feet. Viktor sinks to his knees, heedless of the dampness soaking into his trousers.

‘You’re too good to me, Makkachin,’ Viktor whispers, nuzzling between Makkachin’s ears as he unclips the leash. Makkachin agrees and licks his forgiveness.

Viktor rode his bicycle to the arena and back every day until he got tired of flying. Now he walks, and takes his time about it, and Makkachin’s there to keep him company. Makkachin loves their evening walks after Viktor has been at practice all day, since the route is never predictable. Today Viktor circles counter-clockwise and traces a circuit through the oldest quarter of the city, looping past the supermarket, the theatre, the bakery that sells day-old loaves and tries to pass them off as fresh. Makkachin trots along at Viktor’s side, tongue hanging out.

Somehow he ends up at the dream music store. He stands in front of the display window for a long time, absent-mindedly poking his tongue out to catch the snowflakes beginning to fall. Beside him, Makkachin’s reflection in the storefront is doing the same thing. Then Viktor remembers that Makkachin gets cold when he’s wet and swears. (In response to the curse, a dollop of snow falls heavily from the roof tiles in alarm.) Viktor stoops to brush away what little snow has landed on Makkachin’s fur, and hurries Makkachin into the shelter of the store before he can stop to think about it.

Yuuri isn’t there, but behind the counter is another quietly handsome boy who introduces himself as Otabek. The inside of the music store is… aromatic, somehow, even though Viktor sniffs and can’t detect any scent except dusty plastic and a hint of clay. Makkachin settles himself in front of the entrance to gaze out at the passers-by. Viktor sweeps his fingers across the shelves of flash drives neatly lined up and packaged with labels, curious.

There’s a reservoir of potential dammed up within each of these audio files, apparently. Viktor doesn’t understand how this magic works but he is fascinated.

‘I’m not sure if you share my tastes,’ Otabek says, coming up beside Viktor, his presence soft and unobtrusive. ‘But I’ve always been fond of this one. I think you might like it.’

He taps his finger against a slender cardboard case near the centre of the row. Viktor pulls it out. The cover’s taped shut, and he runs his thumbnail under the edge of the wrapping, wrinkling the plastic slightly.

‘There are two different arrangements. It’s a double-sided track,’ Otabek explains. He stands on tiptoe and reaches over Viktor’s head to push some of the CDs on the uppermost shelf back into place. ‘A solo version, and a duet version. Personally, they’re both my favourites.’

Viktor realises suddenly that there’s no music playing inside the store. Two high-quality, undoubtedly very expensive speakers sit on either side of the counter, unused. Yet the silence is humming.

‘What does it do?’

Otabek shrugs. ‘Inspire.’

Otabek shows Viktor how to uncap and store the flash drive and tells him the file can be transferred onto a computer or phone without much trouble. ‘Sound quality’s not the best on Android, though,’ he adds guiltily. Viktor waves him away. That’s not relevant. Otabek tries to tempt Viktor into buying the set of special earphones that come with a subscription, but Viktor shakes his head. He doesn’t think he’ll be a repeat customer.

The snow has stopped falling when he emerges from the store, and he’s not hungry. So Viktor lets his legs take him towards the nearby cinema, where there’s a popular hotspot. Makkachin gets a little bit perkier whenever they’re in this area; even the pigeons are fatter than usual here, with faint glitter on their wings. If Viktor were a smoker, he might tap the ash from his cigarette and see it melt before it hit the ground.

He considers soaking his weary feet in the rejuvenating fountain, just for a few minutes. Then, as he rounds the corner and limps towards the rows of other people’s shoes and socks sitting beneath the lip of the fountain, he spots a familiar slight figure.

Viktor turns around, Makkachin skidding to a halt beside him. It’s… yes, it’s Yuuri, carefully removing his glasses and placing them on top of the mini-speaker which squats on the edge of the circle he’s scratched around himself. Soon the makeshift boundary will fade. That’s a common way of marking one’s territory around here, where street performers flock to the well of lush power like moths to a lamp.

The circle is burned into the ground and sizzling slightly. Viktor comes nearer. A loose throng of bystanders is already gathering at a respectful distance, wary of the blackening pavement: _do not cross this line. Do not step into my space._ Yuuri’s hair is tousled and the laptop case lying open in front of him — a wise improvisation — has collected a modest treasure covering the bottom. Quarters, several one-dollar bills, a lone five-dollar bill, and (Viktor notes this with disapproval) somebody’s used tissue, which only Yuuri would have the patience to tolerate. Yuuri’s been at this for a while.

Yuuri straightens up. His back is to Viktor, and from here, Viktor can make out the clever outlines of his legs and shoulders. He unlocks his phone, which is plugged into the speaker. He pulls a length of some fine, dark-coloured cloth from his pocket and ties it over his eyes, his fingers deft and experienced.

Viktor feels the soles of his feet begin to tingle in anticipation. He reaches down to pet Makkachin’s head. Someone moves in front of Viktor and nearly blocks his view, but Viktor is tall. He’s seen dancers put on blindfolds to protect their eyes — on days when they’ve left their charms at home or haven’t had time to take supplements. It’s good practice, actually, since things get a lot more intuitive and a lot more difficult when you can’t see what you’re doing.

He’s never seen somebody blindfold themselves because they _didn’t want_ to look at their audience.

Yuuri starts up his music. He tilts himself into a still, lovely position and waits, as the little speaker begins to spill over and strum; he raises his hands and runs them downwards through the air at his sides, the centres of his palms already warming. Viktor can recognise the faint tremble of his mouth.

Viktor’s heart aches. He stretches up on tiptoe to see over the heads of the crowd. ‘ _Davai_ ,’ he calls.

Yuuri’s head whips round like it’s being drawn by a thread. He smirks.

Viktor whistles.

Then the violin kicks in, tinny at first over the cheap speaker but spreading outwards in a ripple of heat, and Yuuri snaps upwards. He _soars_. His feet find their rhythm on a bed of empty air and don’t come down. He’s fragile-looking without foot-guards, his hands exposed to the unyielding evening chill, his battered sneakers lined up beside the laptop case — sliding across nothingness like you’d skid down the floor of a dance studio in your socks. He makes it look so easy. Arms straining above his head, following the clapping beat of the music, his black-socked feet delicately pointed. Like silk. Like a breeze.

There are wolf-whistles, and scattered cheers, from the crowd quickly growing. Under the blindfold, Yuuri’s lips part with his exertion. He twirls, lunges, and goes smoothly from a spread eagle into a jump; Viktor holds his breath. Yuuri lands the triple axel cleanly. Ribbons of streaming crimson burst and pop softly from his bare palms and the gentle soles of his feet, encircling his waist, hissing with smoke, dissipating where they make contact with the ground. The ground is far below Yuuri — so far. Another jump, and another. His motions are raw and a little unpolished, yet undeniably _rich_. He climbs higher, fearless. And then: a spin, corkscrewing gorgeously down to earth, and his arms are clasped over his shoulders and it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.

Yuuri hits the ground with a thump, gasping. He drops to his knees and leans on them. His hair’s a mess, steam and the remnants of velvety sparks coating the air around him. His feet must be burning up. The silence after the end of the piece lasts for a deafening second; then it’s cut by applause. Yuuri yanks the blindfold out of its knot and bends forward to rest his forehead on the frosted ground. Viktor sees him exhale.

As the bystanders disperse (some coming forward to drop money into the case), Viktor hangs back. He turns to look over his shoulder. The sky’s melted into grey and violet, clouds cast low over the roofs of the mosque and the cathedral. Beneath the snow-heaped umbrella stand on the other side of the pedestrian crossing, droplets of ink fly from a tattoo artist’s needle. A low, warning buzz comes from some source he can’t seem to find. From the dawning realisation on the faces of passers-by, he knows he isn’t the only one to notice this.

Abruptly, and all at once, every piece of graffiti on the nearby buildings disappears. Yuuri (crouched over his earnings) looks up and then reacts sharply, zipping his laptop case shut. In her niche across the street, a psychic’s dull eyes snap open.

‘Police!’

Tarot cards scatter across the fountain square. On Viktor’s right, a liver-spotted sculptor scrambles to his feet and gathers up his tools, holding them in the edge of his apron while he runs towards the bridge with steps too nimble for a man of his age. Some crows — when were there crows here? — take off from the parapet in a thunderous flapping of black wings, cawing stridently. The few remaining passers-by even out their strides and tuck their gloved hands into their pockets, eyes staring straight ahead. Illegal conjurers toss powder into the air and are gone in a puff of smoke; stained-glass glimmers fall away as the unlicensed illusionists take to their feet. Yuuri’s gaze locks onto Viktor’s. The scene is disintegrating.

Viktor darts forward and grabs Yuuri’s arm. Yuuri twists in his grip to wrap his fingers around Viktor’s wrist.

‘Viktor!’

‘Come on!’

Yuuri pushes off the wet pavement with one foot, his laptop case jingling under his arm, already in mid-air. Viktor throws one arm around Yuuri’s waist and reaches down to scoop Makkachin into his embrace with the other. ‘Up, Makkachin,’ he commands. Makkachin leaps up and tucks himself safely beneath Viktor’s arm, the stocky body suddenly weightless. Together they bounce off the poster-ridden wall of the cinema. Viktor launches them forward in a second, far more powerful thrust, Yuuri glancing over his shoulder as the blue police car appears in the street behind them. There’s a soft click beside Viktor’s ear, and Viktor knows that Yuuri has snapped an invisibility spell over their heads like a raincoat.

They make it all the way to the park before Yuuri whispers, ‘Here. Here’s safe,’ and they land near a bench, startling its sole occupant, a black cat who lopes away begrudgingly. Makkachin scampers into the bushes to relieve himself, and Yuuri sits down on the park bench next to Viktor. He stretches his legs out in front of him and looks at his damp socks mournfully.

‘My shoes,’ he sighs. ‘I left them in the square.’

‘Oh,’ says Viktor, a bit giddy. ‘I’ve got an extra pair at my apartment, if you don’t mind them being a size too big.’

Yuuri appears to consider this, then shakes his head. ‘I’ll fly home.’ He laughs. ‘I hope nobody stops me on my way back. I’ve been told I seem like a drunk driver.’

His cheeks are flushed. They’re also a little bit sweaty, which means Yuuri isn’t wearing any makeup. Viktor takes a moment to come to terms with the idea that Yuuri just naturally looks like _that_.

Yuuri leans forward and touches his forehead to his knees again. He must be exhausted. Makkachin, returning from a friendly tree, sits down at their feet and begins to thump his tail rhythmically on the grass.

‘You can pet him,’ Viktor says. Yuuri looks at Viktor shyly. ‘His name’s Makkachin. He likes people.’

Yuuri reaches out and holds his open hand near Makkachin’s muzzle, cautiously inviting. Makkachin immediately starts to lick it, and Yuuri smiles.

‘Thank you,’ says Yuuri after a few minutes. He puts his arms around Makkachin’s neck and scratches between his ears.

‘You said you were a tech.’

Yuuri gazes at Viktor, uncomprehending.

‘At Lightsfest,’ Viktor elaborates.

‘What? I am.’ Yuuri ducks his head. His ears are pink. ‘I just do this for fun. In the winter. Helps me pay for dinner, some weeks. It warms me up anyway.’

‘But you’ve had training,’ Viktor adds. It isn’t a question.

Yuuri looks down, his eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. ‘I did ballet when I was a child.’ He clears his throat, swallows. ‘Okay. Okay, a lot longer than that. But I stopped after I got to college. There was just…’ Yuuri presses his lips together. ‘There was no time.’

Yuuri pulls his feet up onto the bench and tucks himself into a crosslegged position. Makkachin, who has been sniffing at Yuuri’s pant leg, follows Yuuri and nuzzles his way into Yuuri’s lap.

Viktor pauses before he asks: ‘Did you never think about joining Hasetsu?’

‘They wouldn’t take me.’

Viktor gives him a look.

‘I didn’t try.’

Viktor sighs.

‘I know, I know,’ Yuuri says, careless in a manner that makes Viktor’s heart swell. He scratches the back of his head, his mouth twitching. ‘I’ve thought about it, but… I just, I think I’m a better person when I’m not doing this professionally, you know? When I don’t feel like I have to… to compete with anyone. When I’m just doing it for myself. I’m happier, stronger.’

Viktor rubs his eyes. He’s tired suddenly, and his stomach is beginning to growl. Makkachin’s ears flop when he picks up the sound. ‘I know what you mean.’

Behind his glasses, Yuuri’s eyes are soft and brown. Viktor wonders how he thought the glasses obscured them before. Yuuri looks at his own hands folded in his lap, and then moves them to cuddle Makkachin.

Over the tops of the skeletal trees, dusk is settling in for good. Viktor breathes in, looking up at the gloomy sky. He should go back to the apartment and shower, and feed Makkachin, and head to Yakov’s for his shift. He feels like he’s had a long day.

‘But it is rewarding,’ says Yuuri. He turns to Viktor, searching for some kind of conviction. His voice tilts upwards. ‘Is it?’

‘Yes,’ Viktor answers. He doesn’t hesitate.

Yuuri nods, his eyes trained on the dark grass. Viktor takes a deep breath.

He pulls the charm-pen out of his wallet and fumbles to turn it on. His fingers are freezing. Yuuri blinks at him, curious, though he responds pliantly when Viktor reaches for his wrist.

‘Give me your hand.’ Yuuri does it. ‘No… okay, your arm, roll up your sleeve for me. Yes.’

He depresses the nib of his charm-pen and laboriously sets about inking his phone number onto Yuuri’s forearm. The symbols glow neon yellow before sinking into Yuuri’s skin, rearranging themselves to form a tidy, perfectly smooth barcode the length of Viktor’s little finger. All Yuuri has to do is rub the barcode several times, and the line will dial Viktor’s number. Viktor flaps his hands to dispel that gooey after-scent which reminds him of paint thinner, swallowing hard.

‘You can erase this at any time. You know how…?’

‘I know,’ Yuuri says. His lips quirk. ‘But I won’t.’

 

* * *

**PART FOUR**

* * *

Yuuri spends three days worrying about the phone number.

To be fair, he spends most of his time worrying about a lot of things. _Most_ , he says, because he doesn’t think about his fears when he’s asleep (except when he has anxiety dreams, but that’s a whole other issue). This is just one of them. Like losing the small change he meant to keep for laundry, or figuring out how he’s going to feed himself _without_ blowing up the kitchen while Phichit is away, or forgetting his keys so he has to noiselessly levitate their front door out of its frame in the middle of the night. Staring at the pointe shoes in their cloth bag at the bottom of his closet, preserved with tender attention throughout these hectic months. Staring at Viktor’s number imprinted on his upper arm, burning a hole through Yuuri’s sleeve while he lies in bed at night.

He could just text. He’s pulled the real information out of the barcode and programmed Viktor’s phone number into his contacts. Yuuri is absolutely not surprised that Viktor knows the number of a phone sex hotline by heart. He is even less surprised that Viktor gives it out to people he doesn’t want to talk to.

Tuesday morning finds Yuuri standing in the front room of Lilia Baranovskaya’s ballet school, his stomach climbing up his throat under the withering gaze of a receptionist.

Instead of trying to explain his presence, he turns to the postcard rack. There are beautiful glossy photographs of locations around the world, Paris and Moscow and Rio de Janeiro and London, and expertly staged shots of rehearsals. Pint-sized, elegant boys and girls in leotards, sleekly synchronised in front of a mirror. A single dark-haired dancer quivering in the centre of Hasetsu’s home arena, her arm outstretched and pointing towards the dome’s highest point directly above her. Group item: fey creatures in pure white and dusty blue, poised in mid-leap, their backs arched like paintings on the inside of a pharaoh’s tomb. Fireworks blossoming all around them. The iconic turrets of the concert hall in Switzerland, champagne-lit at night. Yuuri finds a brochure of a slender pale boy who looks a little like Yuuri himself — black-haired, fine-limbed, his merman-like costume staining from white to sea-green to deep blue. He seems far too delicate for the awe-inspiring height. The dome is mahogany-dark around him. The photographer’s done a good job of capturing him at the perfect moment: the taut strength of his arms, the ferocious concentration on his face.

Yuuri swallows. He turns to a different shelf of the rack, trying to look like another stranger browsing out of idle curiosity. That’s when he spots a younger version of Yuri Plisetsky in the background of the corps de ballet.

They’re not models. They’re real students. These are authentic, candid photos.

Yuuri crouches down and starts searching in earnest. One postcard, and then another — a whole stack of them, freshly glossed, varying prints and poses. More on the other side of the rack. _There are so many of them_. Same haircut. Long hair, much younger. Black costume, silvery white costume, pink jacket and trousers. He turns and takes a magazine at random from the nearest bookshelf. Viktor Nikiforov. Soloist for five years. Principal dancer for another five. Lead in the 2015 summer production, and the 2014 South American tour, and the 2013 —

‘Can I help you?’ Lilia Baranovskaya says behind him.

Yuuri replaces the magazine on the shelf, stammers out something he’s not sure he remembers and flees.

* * *

He calls on a Friday evening.

The dial tone echoes in Yuuri’s bedroom, and he folds himself into a sitting position on the rumpled covers, nervously steepling his fingers. Phichit’s making dinner in the kitchen outside; the scent of Thai curry coaxes saliva into Yuuri’s mouth. His stomach growls, and Yuuri is abruptly very hungry.

Viktor picks up on the third ring.

‘Yuuri!’ He sounds delighted — Yuuri has to stuff his knuckles into his mouth, taken aback by how warm and sleepy and intimate Viktor’s tone is. The sound comes from a spot somewhere around Yuuri’s eye-level, hovering near the foot of the bed and muffled by the sun seeping into the blankets. Viktor’s only half-awake. ‘I thought you’d lost my number! Only Aeroflot has kept me waiting as long as you have.’

Yuuri has no idea what that is. He gulps, stomach plummeting. ‘I’m sorry,’ he stutters, at a loss for any other response. ‘I forgot you work at night. Did I wake you up?’

‘Hmm? Oh. No.’ Viktor yawns. ‘How was your day?’

Phichit comes to stand in the doorway, having heard Viktor’s recognisably silken voice. The walls of their apartment are thin. This is why Yuuri’s never having sex ever. Phichit leans against the doorframe with his arms folded, a smudge of coconut milk on his cheek, letting the shit-eating grin slowly devour the entire lower half of his face.

Yuuri throws himself back on the pillows and gazes at Phichit in resignation.

‘I, um. I actually. Is it okay if I ask for a favour?’ Yuuri rubs his forehead. He can hear soft panting from the other end of the line and knows that Makkachin’s there, probably sprawled across Viktor’s legs. ‘Hi, Makkachin.’

‘Yes,’ Viktor answers instantly. ‘Makkachin says hi back. Sure. Coffee?’

‘N-not exactly.’ Yuuri hates himself. He sends Phichit a panicky look, and Phichit gives him two thumbs up and then a distinctly obscene gesture. Yuuri has the worst friends. ‘I was wondering, um…’ Shit. There’s no other way to put this. ‘Could you help me break into the arena? I just, okay, I’ve been thinking, and I was at Lightsfest group practice earlier today and the whole of yesterday, and…’

Viktor laughs.

There’s a horrible pointed silence. Yuuri rolls onto his side, away from Phichit, and puts his hand over his face. Stupid, _stupid_ , he shouldn’t have asked, it’s been a nagging need that won’t go away when he puts together the sequences for the earliest stages of group rehearsals, and looks down at the tiny figures circling below him and thinks: _I can do that. I can do that —_

‘Yuuri, Yuuri,’ says Viktor, voice dropping low and honeyed like silver. ‘You don’t need to break into the arena. I’m a member. I can access it at any hour of the day. Come with me and I’ll show you.’

Yuuri’s air returns to his lungs in a gasp. His head is whirling. He runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth, tasting dust.

‘Okay.’

‘We’ll have to go in the early morning, though,’ Viktor continues. Yuuri can feel the cogs of Viktor’s mind already turning. ‘Before people come in for their scheduled airtime. If you meet me at Yakov’s at the end of my shift, I can take you there.’

Yuuri blinks and stares up at the ceiling. ‘Okay.’ He doesn’t dare to glance at Phichit. ‘So… really, you’ll get me in? You’ll show me?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Yuuri hears the sheets rustle as Viktor sits up. ‘Yuuri — the busking.’ His voice takes on a new note: unmistakably hopeful. ‘That is what your espressos were for, yes?’

Yuuri exhales. ‘No, Viktor, I just wanted to look good before the orgy. Yes. _Yes_ , they were. I’m single. When are you free?’

‘Where was this side of you when we were trying to get you together with the girl from Detroit?’ Phichit demands from the doorway. Yuuri shushes him.

Viktor lets out a small, surprised hum. ‘Who’s that?’

Yuuri gives up on everything about his life and decides to just let events run their course. ‘That’s my roommate Phichit.’

‘Hi, Phichit!’ Viktor chirps.

‘Hi, Viktor!’

‘Mondays are good for me, and Thursdays,’ Viktor decides. Yuuri wonders why he’s never known what a smile sounded like before. ‘I’ll see you, then.’

* * *

 

* * *

Viktor is a harsh teacher.

Of course he is. Yuuri wouldn’t expect anything less. They slip into the arena together at the crack of dawn, while the sky turns pink above the tops of the trees. Viktor runs the membership tattoo on his inner wrist under the scanner for a few seconds before the side door clicks open. Yuuri mumbles a shy hello to the janitor who looks at them quizzically, and Viktor waves.

Viktor takes him backstage and hands Yuuri the foot-guards, which weigh too heavy on Yuuri’s feet like steel-toed boots, and a pair of black gloves. ‘You’ll want to wear a long-sleeved shirt next time,’ he observes, glancing at Yuuri’s hoodie zipped up all the way to his chin. ‘It can get cold.’

Understatement of the year. Yuuri doesn’t intend to take off his hoodie. He spends a full hour walking up and down the sloping inner sides of the dome, which is just as magnificently well-maintained up close as it appears from the control booth. The odd knot in the wood reassures Yuuri, like finding an imperfection in Viktor’s complexion. Challenging gravity like this, the curved walls seem flat, blending into the floor at one end and the vaulted ceiling at the other — angles so paltry that Yuuri hardly realises he’s standing with his feet planted solidly on earth even after he reaches the ground. Yuuri is glad for the markings of the barres and steps and the jut of the ledge, the only clues to help Yuuri get his bearings. There aren’t any mirrors. Yuuri’s grateful.

The foot-guards become weightless once he actually starts to climb. What Yuuri can’t get used to is the thought of being redefined by the structure around him. The knowledge that his every jump can be measured against the benchmarks of ceiling or steps. He’s never had to consider height or distance before, only the purity of his movements. Out on the streets, Yuuri’s world consists of the clear canvas of the sky and the pavement beneath him.

‘So if I start from the fourth step, this is a level four step sequence?’ he calls across the arena to Viktor.

‘You don’t need to care about that, Yuuri,’ Viktor calls back. This isn’t a snub on Yuuri’s skills, far from it. Yuuri gets the impression that Viktor himself, star of Hasetsu, pays very little heed to such technicalities. Yuuri should introduce him properly to Phichit. They’d get along. Viktor is standing on the ledge a continent away, watching Yuuri, and Yuuri prickles with awareness of how cleanly Viktor carries himself, settling into a fine poise clearly born of experience.

He’s still thinking about this when Viktor walks across the air between them to meet him, hanging an arm’s length away from Yuuri’s side.

‘You should try to leave the domeside, Yuuri,’ Viktor says, smiling. ‘What’s the matter? It’s the foot-guards, isn’t it?’

Yuuri nods, relieved at being understood. In his socks, Yuuri can fly and _fly_ and never think about coming down. But the foot-guards make it real. They make the danger a possibility.

‘That’s all right.’ Viktor holds out his hand. Yuuri looks into the clarity of Viktor’s eyes, as blue-green as ice chips. ‘That is normal. You’re supposed to start out scared. Here, hold my hand and we’ll walk.’

Yuuri breathes in. He reaches to take Viktor’s hand, and Viktor pulls it away at the last second, stepping backwards with a soft laugh.

‘Oh, really? Are we playing this game?’ asks Yuuri, unsurprised. He takes one step, and then another. Viktor keeps backing away in front of him, cheekbones alight with his grin, just tantalisingly out of reach.

‘Are you going to tell me not to look down?’ Yuuri’s feet are becoming swift and sure.

Viktor shakes his head, his bangs falling sweetly over one eye. ‘No. You will anyway. Everybody looks down sooner or later. It’s okay to be afraid.’

Yuuri arches down to try and swipe at Viktor’s legs from below. Viktor darts upwards, laughing.

‘This is what my teacher did to me when I was starting out,’ Viktor explains, about halfway across the arena. They’re spaced so far apart that he has to almost shout, since they keep coming at each other from all directions. ‘All of us in the class. One by one.’

Yuuri can’t help himself. He does look down. The dark sea of the flooring beneath them is very far away, sure, but Yuuri isn’t afraid. He just feels slightly out of balance: a satellite tugged from its orbit. Outside the dome, the sun must be up by now, and he can feel the sky bearing his weight on its shoulders.

‘How long ago was that?’

‘About as long ago as your first ballet lesson,’ replies Viktor, which isn’t much of an answer at all. The tip of his nose is red. ‘Why didn’t you get scouted?’

‘I did. But my college scholarship —’

‘You _turned it down_?’

‘I had to pay my tuition fees, Viktor!’

Yuuri sees an opportunity and lunges. Viktor whips away just in time, and Yuuri chases him all the way to the ledge on the opposite domeside, finally catching Viktor’s sleeve as Viktor slams to a halt breathless and flushed.

‘I’m too old for this,’ Viktor pants. He leans against the wall and gazes at Yuuri while he catches his breath. Yuuri rests his elbows on the barre behind him, his back to the empty galaxy of the dome. Once you enter the building, the rows of seats are red-carpeted and sleek. Backstage is hung with velvet curtains, and you reach the arena by climbing a slender, winding staircase to one of the doors that open out onto this ledge. It’s an expensive, exclusive place, one which Yuuri might never have gotten the chance to enter. But during the Festival of Lights, this whole area transforms: stallholders’ booths and makeshift stages appearing like flowers on the square, bursts of music popping and hissing in the bright air.

‘Here.’ Viktor pushes his hair back. ‘I’ll show you. The trick is to let yourself fall. It’s like riding a bike: you fall, and that’s how you know the helmet works. Protects you. If you find yourself falling, spread out your arms and legs, the way people float in a swimming pool.’ Gently he lifts Yuuri’s hands and arranges Yuuri the way he likes, though Yuuri stays grounded on the ledge. ‘That slows your descent. And when you want to fall as quickly as possible — sometimes you need to do that, like Minako in her Death of a Swan pas de deux in Denmark — ’

Viktor demonstrates, suspended in mid-air like a fly in amber.

‘— make yourself small. Lock your elbows, put your head on your knees. Make yourself a dead weight. Again, think of swimming. In a performance, you’ll have to time it perfectly, so you can extend yourself just before the foot-guards kick in and spoil the feeling of the dance.’ He straightens and looks at Yuuri over the curve of one shoulder. ‘But they _will_ kick in. Everyone should fall at least once. Makes you trust in the foot-guards.’

Yuuri wonders how Viktor can say this while remembering the one time the equipment failed him. He points one foot off the ledge, closes his eyes and topples.

It doesn’t work. Yuuri’s sense of self-preservation has always been his strongest quality. His fingers tingle and release tiny sparks, and he sinks for just a few seconds before he floats — clumsy, but safe. Yuuri pulls his elbows in and turns the motion into a quick spin, neatly tying off the attempt as if it were choreography. He looks up to see Viktor frowning.

Yuuri is startled to realise how much further down he is, now, despite feeling like he’s only descended for a couple of heartbeats. The laws of physics are formidable when you allow them to work. Viktor’s a lot smaller from down here, perched on top of the barre like a casually elegant swan. The thing to remember about large birds is that they can _mess you up_. Yuuri rises to meet him, flipping back onto the ledge fluidly.

‘Yuuri,’ Viktor says, finger at his lips, forehead perfectly smooth. ‘It’s hard telling yourself to lose control, isn’t it?’ Yuuri nods. ‘It goes against our natures. But if you think about it, _everything_ about flying goes against human nature.’

He steps off the barre and begins combing a diagonal path downwards, the strokes long and powerful. He’s beautiful. Viktor looks up at Yuuri through his silvery lashes, deceptively harmless.

‘I’ll be right here.’ Voice light. Eyes like satin. ‘If the foot-guards don’t catch you, I will. Do you trust me?’

‘Yes,’ Yuuri answers without hesitating. Viktor’s eyes sparkle. He’s at Yuuri’s side in an instant, before Yuuri has even had time to register the start of Viktor’s ascent.

‘Yuuri,’ says Viktor behind him, and that’s all the warning Yuuri gets before Viktor pushes him off the ledge.

Yuuri doesn’t get to scream even if he wanted to, because the shock knocks his breath clean out of his lungs. He plunges. The floor comes whistling up towards him and all that goes through Yuuri’s head is: _I’m glad I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon_. Wind hisses past his eyes, exposed without their glasses — he worries briefly about his eardrums — and then solid weight blossoms beneath him, nearly stealing Yuuri’s breath a second time. The cushion breaks his fall. Yuuri wrests himself upright, gasping for air.

‘Yuuri.’ Viktor’s beside him, lips parted, reaching for Yuuri’s hands. Yuuri takes both Viktor’s hands in his own and they float down together like that, winding their way in circles to the floor. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m okay,’ Yuuri chokes out. ‘I’m okay. I hate you. God. _God_.’

* * *

They settle into a routine. Yuuri trades shifts with Phichit at the music store more often now, since trainings and practice duties are picking up steam as they hurtle towards the first dress rehearsals for Lightsfest. Minako doesn’t seem stressed, though her mouth is a little tighter and her fingers a little quicker as she pulls on her gloves. Yuuri has to remind himself that these are prima ballerinas, experienced light dancers, a world-famous ensemble established over twenty years ago. The Festival of Lights must feel like a welcome breather between their touring seasons. By this time, Yuuri can pull the lightbulbs into place with his eyes closed, swinging bright and diamond-dazzling to the program music he knows like his own heartbeat. Minako upgrades him to chief technician when the original head tech — a kindly old man named Nikolai — falls sick and leaves for a rest cure in the hot springs, the one reliable place that’s still warm in the dead of winter. Yuri Plisetsky is noticeably grumpier afterwards, though Yuuri doesn’t make the connection until much later.

He’s stopped going to Yakov’s so frequently. A bento and sports drink serve him well enough during his meal breaks. Viktor is at the arena every alternate day, Makkachin watching blissfully at Yuuri’s side (having been allowed into the building given the freezing temperatures outdoors). Yuuri studies the polished motions of Viktor’s body from the control booth — when he isn’t too busy to notice Viktor, that is — and thinks, _this is mine, this is mine to keep. This is secret._

Obviously, it doesn’t stay a secret for long.

‘I can’t believe you make yourself wake up early,’ Phichit yawns, slumped on the sofa while Viktor signs a package with JJ at the café’s side entrance. ‘How do you _live_ , Yuuri?’

‘I’d do a lot of things for that ass,’ Guang Hong points out. Phichit considers this and nods, because it’s true. If Guang Hong is interested enough in Yuuri’s love life to arrive early for his morning shift, Yuuri is beginning to realise that he may be in very deep trouble indeed.

Leo is FaceTiming Mari at this very moment, since Leo is secretly kind of a jerk. ‘Is he good enough for my brother?’ Mari snaps, and Leo holds the phone up to capture the curve of Viktor’s waist as he bends to retrieve a dropped napkin. ‘Oh, that’s the dancer? I can tell. _Damn_.’

‘Mari,’ Yuuri whimpers.

‘Yuuri’s always had the best taste in men,’ Phichit tells her. Yuuri buries his head in his hands.

‘He seems like a nice person,’ agrees Otabek from the other end of the sofa seat. Yuuri is not sure when Otabek got involved in this discussion. There are approving nods all round the corner table. Otabek’s judgment tends to be sound.

Viktor, who is standing close enough to have heard every word of their exchange, walks over to Yuuri’s table. Leo whispers, ‘Gotta go!’ into his phone and hurriedly ends the call. JJ trails after Viktor with an empty case of potion bottles in his arms, shrugging up the sleeves of his uniform.

‘Yuuri!’ Now they are evidently on a first-name basis. Yuuri lifts his head from the tabletop and greets JJ with a weak wave. ‘You can tell me Viktor’s number!’

‘What?’ says Viktor, forehead wrinkling in confusion.

‘You gave me a fake number the last time,’ JJ explains patiently.

‘I don’t recall.’

Yuuri makes a tiny, pained sound and sits up, bracing himself with a hand on Phichit’s shoulder. ‘Ready to go, Viktor?’

‘Sure,’ Viktor says, his smile rippling like moonshine. The silence from the others at their table is studiedly perfect. ‘Looks like you forgot your jacket again, my Yuuri. I’ve got an extra one in my bag for you.’

Yuuri bites his lip hard. He tries to sneak a glance sideways to check whether Phichit is stealthily filming this. ‘Okay.’

‘Say thank you,’ Guang Hong hisses. Yuuri kicks him underneath the table. Viktor’s command of English seems to get unusually limited at such times, but his smile only grows wider. He links arms with Yuuri and walks them towards the entrance with the collected, loping tread of a mountain lion, his cool fingers slipping down to curl for a moment around Yuuri’s wrist.

‘Final verdict?’ Yuuri hears Leo mutter, as Guang Hong slinks unwillingly to the counter.

Phichit waves one hand, noncommittal. ‘He’s okay. Not _remarkable_ , but, like, nobody else could come close —’

‘I’m a bit hungry,’ Yuuri says loudly. ‘Can we get some breakfast on the way, Viktor?’

‘Okay!’ says Viktor, the response coming quick and smooth. He reaches down to pat the fern on their way out. Yuuri pats it too. ‘Anything you want.’

* * *

Yuri discovers them on a clear grey morning when the sun’s almost up and the air outside is warmer than usual. He climbs out onto the ledge to confront them, stands there with his arms folded and stretches up to yell at Viktor: ‘Aren’t you supposed to be _resting_ , old man?’

‘I’ll show you old man,’ Viktor says, and kicks down from the ceiling all the way onto the ledge in a single lightning motion. At the other end of the arena, Yuuri looks concerned. Yuri scrambles out of the way, spitting like a startled cat. ‘You’re here early!’

‘I heard music from outside.’ Yuri glances contemptuously up at Yuuri, who is hovering among the fragile stars of the strung-up lightbulbs. He blinks, glances again — recognising Yuuri — and frowns in confusion, before returning his attention to Viktor. ‘Is that _my_ warm-up music? Are you using my —’

‘No, it was mine first,’ Viktor interrupts, taking careful pointed steps along the rim of the ledge, ‘and I passed it down to you. I’m just carrying on the tradition.’

Yuri sniffs. He jerks his head in Yuuri’s direction. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘This is Yuuri,’ Viktor says, combing his hair back with his fingers. He can feel the smile beginning to stretch his cheeks. It’s a bit difficult to turn that off. ‘He shares your name, so you’ll be nice to him, yes?’

Yuri gives a dismissive shrug and rubs his reddening nose with the back of his hand. He looks Yuuri up and down, plainly unimpressed, then seems to remember his manners. ‘Do you really have time to be fucking around like this?’ Yuuri is choosing to remain at a wary distance; Yuri sighs, and bends down to unlace his leopard-print sneakers. ‘Nice to meet you, other Yuri. I am the better, younger, prettier version of you, who actually knows what he’s doing. Vitya —’

Viktor sails backwards into the middle of the dome. ‘Goodbye, Yurochka!’

‘Is this how you deal with all your problems?’ Yuri bawls after him.

Predictably, the first thing Yuri does is grab a pair of foot-guards and take to the air himself, since Yuri can never resist a whiff of competition. Yuuri’s so thoroughly uninterested that Viktor finds it funny. Recently Yuuri has discovered the thrills of running backwards and upside down, which is fun when done off the wall of a crumbling bridge, and exhilarating when the surface under his feet is curved wood. He tucks his elbows at his sides and goes into an experimental rolling spin, trying to find the precise moment he can pull himself out of his fall before the foot-guards do it for him. Sometimes he comes up too fast, and breaks his momentum — so it doesn’t have as much impact.

‘You’re doing it wrong,’ Yuri hisses, exasperated. He claps his hands. ‘Again. Throw yourself away!’

Yuuri twists off the domeside into a sideways spiral, flinging smoking fistfuls of saffron fire that come dangerously close to hitting Viktor. Viktor swats them away. Yuuri tilts his head at Yuri and asks, his tone gently curious: ‘Why are you on the ceiling?’

Standing at a perfect right angle off the steps himself, Viktor gazes up at Yuri too. ‘He likes to be tall.’

Growling, Yuri locks his own elbows and drops like a sack of potatoes. Disgraceful. Yuuri swoops in automatically to catch him; but Yuri flips himself around and lands, catlike, on his feet, soles flat on the floor without the air cushion popping once.

‘Amateur.’ He points at Yuuri, who has begun to circle him in mid-air like a new and respectful kennelmate, unoffended. If Yuuri had a dog’s nose to sniff, he would be using it right now. ‘Watch me again and learn. _Watch me_.’

* * *

Viktor’s career is far from over. Dancers peak in their thirties; his bones are wearing thin, but not too old. Not now. Not yet. He can spiral, and run pointe, and land all the jumps he nailed before his injury and then some. Minako has made it very clear that Viktor can return any time he likes. This is one of the privileges of holding Viktor’s position. He just hasn’t decided when he _wants_ to.

The thing about touring — it takes you to countless cities without letting you see very much of them. Viktor has appreciated the interiors of all the best opera houses in Italy. Long-distance flights are like swooping, blurring — plane-smoke setting their trails alight in the eternal sky, the better for Ground Control to track them — and Viktor _does_ enjoy them, sort of. He likes heaving the group’s baggage onto the check-in ramps, huddling together for warmth in the dull in-between spaces that are airports at one-thirty a.m., like a flock of so many grey-flecked birds. Stale coffee, bright early mornings and velvet-cloaked rehearsals, the feel of a new stage; the scent of an old sweater, the closest feeling to home one can get in this newsreel of places. Yuri is too young to really miss life, having joined the junior chorus at the age of twelve. Viktor’s been dancing since he was four. He still wouldn’t give this up for the world.

It’s a peculiar feeling, flying. Taking to the skies to escape highway traffic — lighting cigarettes with your fingers in a pinch — is commonplace enough, but so much more of a joy when you’ve whittled that down to an intense art. Yuuri is all raw talent, and he’s been taught well, and Viktor can see the pleasure in re-orienting oneself to the rhythms and styles of the arena. Viktor’s world is so different. Walls rising up out of thin air, the quest for precision (they will perfect these routines till each element is at the exact same height every time, says Lilia). The way the angles of one’s slides are so much more enticing when you dizzy yourself measuring them off the steps. The untethered, rolling power to go crashing into the ceiling and smash to bits on an impartial wooden floor. He’s been the Mouse King and Juliet, and the Lead Swan and the Prince, and the roles never seem to run dry. Like some Shakespearean actor. You never get them quite right. The threat of falling keeps audiences on their toes. Keeps _him_ on his toes. He follows Yuuri from earth to ceiling, now.

‘Like languages,’ Yuuri explains, after finishing a gorgeous diagonal sequence from the corner of the vaulted ceiling all the way to the ground. There’s something arresting and wondrous about him, a shy and lovely creature. From a high point just under the overhead lights, Viktor nods in understanding, finger against his mouth. ‘Like… Danish and Swedish, I don’t know. Norwegian? They’re not separate genres of dance. They’re related, even if they are slightly different. Mutually intelligible.’

Viktor has been practising the four-jump combination that went awry at last year’s Lightsfest. No touchdowns. Every element at the same height and distance each time you perform it, says Lilia; that is how you tell the professional from the talented amateur. He begins at a low point first. Near the floor, grounded and safe. Yuuri looks at him with a gentle, serious expression and doesn’t say anything. He’ll get to the ceiling eventually.

‘If you’ve decided to audition, I can put in a word for you with Minako,’ Viktor tells Yuuri while they sit on the second lowest step at seven-thirty in the morning. Yuuri rotates his feet slowly in circles, one after the other, wriggling his toes inside the black shells of the foot-guards. ‘You should take advantage of knowing me. Not everyone gets the chance so easily.’

Yuuri’s eyelashes flutter darkly as he looks down. Something about his presence is soothing, and Viktor wants to reach out and _touch_ , but he’s also worried that doing this might make Yuuri fall off the steps.

‘Your faith in me is touching.’

‘Please,’ Viktor snorts. ‘You’re not technically very good —’ Yuuri winces, and then gives a wry smile. ‘— yet, but you have the artistry down pat, and that is what some people spend all their lives working to achieve. Struggling, sometimes.’

‘Not you, obviously,’ Yuuri murmurs.

‘No,’ agrees Viktor blithely. Yuuri chuckles. Viktor raises one leg and points his toes towards the ceiling. ‘You can see the appeal, surely.’

Yuuri glances away; then his eyes slide back to Viktor’s face. Yuuri has never bothered with dishonesty. ‘Yes.’

Viktor leans back on the heels of his hands. He waits.

‘I’m so busy these days,’ Yuuri mumbles, regretful. ‘After Lightsfest —’

‘After Lightsfest we’re going to China.’

Yuuri doesn’t bat an eyelid at the _we_ and, now that he stops to register it, neither does Viktor. Yuuri presses his fist to his mouth and says quietly, ‘I haven’t got time to prepare an audition piece.’

Viktor shakes his head. ‘Minako doesn’t accept audition pieces. She puts on random music of her choice and makes you freestyle. It wastes less of her time.’

Yuuri’s lips part ever so slightly.

Later that night, Viktor is grudgingly vacuuming the floor of his bedroom when his foot knocks something over. It’s the track Otabek coaxed him into buying from Yuuri’s music store, still pristine in its cardboard case. He hasn’t had the time to listen to it, even on a whim. He’s been too bored and too tired to think, and then — a different kind of exhausted, from these days of clean exertion. Magic leaves a good feeling in his heels.

Now, though, Viktor feels energised. He peels off the wrapping and spends a long minute studying the thin metal of the flash drive. There doesn’t seem to be anything special about it.

Viktor plugs the flash drive into his laptop and wonders whether the special earphones would have been worth purchasing. He fishes among the charger cables on his desk, and then underneath his pillow, in search of his own earphones; he finds them at last in the sleeping basket Makkachin never uses, for some reason. He presses play.

* * *

‘Viktor,’ Yuuri says while Viktor is down on his knees in front of Yuuri backstage, lacing up Yuuri’s foot-guards. He swallows. ‘I want to audition.’

Viktor’s head snaps up. His eyes can go from their default narrowed calculation to mildly terrifying pleasure in seconds. Yuuri places his palm on the crown of Viktor’s head and pats it gently. ‘I’ll speak to Minako tomorrow!’

Yuuri’s fatigued in a good way, and the air hums around him. His head’s ringing with the echoes of Minami’s (devilishly catchy) music, and he has to slink down to the county clerk’s office this afternoon to get a new license, although that’s worth the hassle. His feet are tender, his eyelids sore; he’s been pulling too many double shifts. It’s okay. Minako needs him, and Otabek’s crew is short-handed at the best of times. This is a different kind of exhaustion. He — college was mostly bad, yes, okay, he can admit this now. He was new to the city and forever getting lost, _feeling_ lost, the frenetic rhythm of train schedules and class schedules and work wearing him out in a way that took more than it gave. All through his college years, Yuuri didn’t even know when Hasetsu productions rolled around, let alone the names of their cast members. Looking back, it seems to him that he spent most of his waking hours fretting, and all of his sleeping hours doing the same. He’s out now. He was made for this.

Yuuri has never fallen, even on the streets without foot-guards. _Especially_ on the streets. He anticipates, each morning in the arena, the day it’ll happen for the first time when he’s not paying attention. His stamina’s always been good. A stamp of membership? An initiation, perhaps — _here you are, lined up in performance with the rest of us, falling like the rest of us_. Part of something bigger. Like watching Viktor, cold and bouncing on the balls of his feet in the overcast dawn, hugging himself to warm his blood. Above Yuuri, Viktor’s foot twists slickly in place as he soars into a beautiful quad lutz. His fingertips come within an inch of the lightbulbs before he whisks around to do it again. Evidently the jump is supposed to transition into something else.

He’s creating something new.

‘I forgot to leave you some money last time, that day I found you busking,’ Viktor says while they walk home in the newborn sun, coordinating their footsteps in that special two-person rhythm which lights up the pavement behind them. Soft heat-stains blossom in the shape of their footprints, fading quickly and completely unnecessary in the morning light. This never fails to delight Viktor. His apartment’s closer than Yuuri’s, so Yuuri walks him home before looping around to get to Phichit’s. ‘What should I give you, Yuuri?’

‘A used tissue?’

Viktor grins. ‘No.’

 _Ask for a kiss. Ask for a kiss. Ask for a —_ Yuuri turns to look at their melting footprints in a long, unsteady line behind them. Viktor is jingling his safety marble in his jacket pocket, a small unconscious habit. The thin glow of the sunlight glistens on his cheekbones. Yuuri has learned to deal with Viktor’s brand of praise and feed on it, even.

‘Maybe a dollar?’

‘I’m sure I could spare more,’ says Viktor, which is exactly the kind of thing Viktor says occasionally without thinking about too hard. ‘Well. This is a big city, so… not much more than a five, unfortunately. How about a ten?’

Yuuri keeps his eyes on the ground. He feels warm from the soles of his feet all the way up. ‘Don’t bother.’ Viktor’s hand is light on his elbow as they descend the narrow, rain-soaked stairs into the subway. Little Yuri likes to come into practice complaining about the ‘— giant fucking rats in this giant fucking city, what the fuck!’ (‘Just hex them and run away, it’s not hard,’ says Minako patiently. To which Yuri responds: ‘I can’t! Sometimes they talk back!’)

Viktor cocks his head. His mouth falls open, vanilla-soft with expensive lip balm. Yuuri wants to engrave that expectant smile onto his fingertips. ‘Hmm?’

‘You can get it for free.’

* * *

‘I can’t believe I said that,’ Yuuri moans fourteen hours later, lying facedown on his unmade bed while Phichit giggles over Instagram next door. The audition is tomorrow and Yuuri’s dealt with no less than three fuckboys coming in today to request songs which will make girls want to sleep with them at house parties. Yuuri had to explain that no, it doesn’t work that way, and also, _really_? ‘I’m going to crawl under a rock and —’

Yuuri’s phone rings. He scrambles off the bed to get it, his pulse lurching sickeningly in his chest.

Viktor’s calling, and Yuuri’s stomach drops for a moment; then he picks up his phone and hears the contained panic in Viktor’s voice and it _plunges_.

Yuuri sits back down on his bed and puts his forehead on his raised knees.

‘The cold,’ says Viktor, carefully modulating the emotion in each syllable. Yuuri nods along — he can’t help nodding along. He wishes he could touch Viktor. ‘Many people get sick during this season. First Yura’s grandfather, and now…’ Viktor sniffles. ‘ _I_ am from _St. Petersburg_ ,’ he continues with dignity, ‘but Makkachin is not. I meant to go with you tomorrow. I have to take him to the vet. I’m sorry, Yuuri.’

Yuuri clenches his teeth. His head hurts sharply from the chill. He’s glad the phone call came this late at night, so he only has a few hours to work himself up into a nervous frenzy before tomorrow morning. He’s had twenty-four years to deal with this tendency; still no luck.

‘It’s okay.’ He taps his fingernails on his knee, once, twice: calming himself. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

Viktor seems unconvinced, but changes tack. His tone becomes surer, dipping a little lower into the secure dark wood of his voicebox, and Yuuri focuses on that. Yuuri closes his eyes; the silence is soothing.

‘Listen, after that’s over, there’s something I would like you to do for me.’

‘Sure.’ Yuuri presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He inhales. ‘Coffee?’

Viktor lets out a startled chuckle and Yuuri swallows the sound. ‘No. Okay, yes, maybe later…’ Yuuri rolls under the covers and tucks his head into the dent of the pillow, listening to Viktor’s voice trip fluidly on. ‘I want you to edit this track your friend sold me. Make it… I don’t know what you call it, ordinary. Is that possible?’

‘You want to turn a magic track into a mundane?’

Viktor blows out a soft puff of air. ‘Yes.’

‘Okay,’ Yuuri murmurs, burying his face in the blankets. ‘Okay.’

‘It’s all right if you can’t.’

‘No, I can, it’s just — we get requests for the other way around, usually.’ He sighs. ‘Good night, Viktor.’

Viktor considers this. Yuuri recalls, not for the first time today, that Viktor _thinks_ very much — if this were Yuuri, he’d probably get tired. ‘Good night.’

Ten-thirty in the morning and Yuuri’s back in the front room of the ballet school, blood icy from the outdoors air, his heart thudding in his temples. He has the imprint of Phichit’s reassuring squeeze on his shoulder tingling still, and a note from Otabek in his back pocket: _Live your dream_. He hasn’t slept.

Okukawa Minako comes out of one of the practice rooms, dressed in a pale blue-grey cardigan and a white blouse. She’s slim, and the set of her mouth and cheekbones is severe; the long movements of her hands carry an iron grace. This woman has won the Benois de la Danse. Yuuri digs his teeth into his lower lip, digs his fingernails into his palm, and stands up from the sofa to greet her.

‘Katsuki Yuuri?’ Minako gives him a small, flashing smile of recognition and takes his measure in an instant, her gaze quick and competent. ‘Vitya told me you were killing time as a tech. I didn’t know he was talking about my most _important_ tech.’

Killing time as a tech. _Killing time._

‘Well, you’re extra-qualified to run the Festival, it seems,’ Minako says kindly. She holds out a hand to usher him into the narrow, brightly lit corridor behind her. ‘Come on in.’

The practice room is wide and open and the ceiling too high to be real. Yuuri looks at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, at the shadows inked clearly underneath his eyes, and quickly averts his gaze. He can’t even look at his audience most of the time. He can’t look at himself. How is he supposed to perform in front of Minako?

His shoes are off, and he studies the finely darned socks on his feet instead. The sight of them blurs.

Oh.

Minako walks calmly over to the CD player in the corner and presses the play button. The notes flow out into empty space: a gentle, liquid piano piece, delicate and running softly over the accompaniment before building to a sweet climax twinned with violin. Yuuri’s head hurts. His throat is dry so he can’t swallow. Repetition should ground him. It _should_. Instead it just makes him feel unsteady.

Yuuri draws in a breath. _Move_.

His fingers are shaking. He forces them into fists at his sides. _This was a bad idea._ Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again until his vision clears, thinks a little desperately: _no, don’t. Don’t run away._ Just a little longer.

As the music drops from intensity into a quiet loneliness, barely touching the too-heavy air, he makes the mistake of glancing at Minako’s statue-like figure out of the corner of his eye. Her hair is falling over her shoulders. Her arms are folded.

 _Move_ , he shouts inside his head. He can’t make his feet move. He can’t make himself breathe. He can’t —

The piece rolls to its end, which is altogether too lovely for Yuuri.

There’s a long silence.

‘I’ll play it one more time,’ Minako says.

* * *

Yuuri makes it all the way to the ground floor of the building before his fingers are pushing up his sleeve of their own accord, finding their way to the powdery texture of the barcode, which heats up at his touch. _Please_ , he thinks, _please pick up_ — and then he’s rubbing frantically, tongue between his teeth, ducking his face into the collar of his jacket as he speeds up his pace.

‘Yuuri?’ Viktor says into his ear. Yuuri can’t read the tone. He feels blind, suddenly. ‘How was it?’

‘Viktor,’ he whispers. One of the murals on the inside of the subway station whines at him while he passes, dark-painted dog-paws reaching for him. Yuuri walks faster. He doesn’t deserve inanimate sympathy. ‘Can I come over?’

There’s a harsh intake of breath. ‘Yes,’ Viktor answers after only a second’s pause, over the sound of something rustling to the floor as he gets up. ‘I’ll have tea ready.’

Yuuri takes the subway there, since he doesn’t trust himself to fly. The doorman knows Yuuri by sight — Yuuri does not need to think about what that means. Viktor’s apartment door glistens in front of him, perfectly normal. A perfectly normal place. _Don’t run away_. Yuuri’s breath hitches in his throat. He sucks in all the air he can find, raises a fist and knocks.

Viktor opens the door after an intolerable wait. His hair’s dishevelled, and he looks exhausted; his mouth pinches sideways. He takes one look at Yuuri’s expression and opens his arms.

Yuuri gasps. He flings himself forward. Viktor’s arms wrap tightly around him, safe and present and _warm_ , and then Viktor’s drawing him backwards into the apartment, snapping the door shut without even touching it. For some reason the click of the door breaks something loose inside Yuuri, and he’s crying: rough sobs that should be silent and really aren’t. Above him, Viktor makes a small sound.

Something brushes Yuuri’s lower back and then his waist, and he shivers before realising that Makkachin’s putting his paws up on Yuuri from behind. Viktor guides them to the sofa in the living room, easing Yuuri down onto the cushions beside him. Makkachin leans his head heavily on Yuuri’s knee.

‘Yuuri,’ Viktor is murmuring, over and over again like he doesn’t have any other words in his vocabulary. He hasn’t taken his arms off Yuuri once. Yuuri feels Viktor brush a kiss against his hairline. ‘Yuuri, shhh.’

Yuuri puts his hands over his mouth. He can’t seem to stop gasping. It’s the worst feeling to do this with somebody else’s eyes on you. Viktor leans in and places a hand on his shoulder, and Yuuri jerks away. He can’t help it. It’s a reflex. He sees the hurt flash across Viktor’s eyes for a brief instant and bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He forces himself to slow down. He forces himself to breathe.

‘Is…’ His voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat. ‘Is Makkachin okay?’

Viktor lets out a short, pained laugh. He looks more upset than Yuuri feels. Makkachin whimpers softly between them, fur rising and falling just underneath this close-up view of Viktor’s features far too delicate for someone in their late twenties, the long eyelashes, the straight nose, the slim unhappy line of his mouth, and Yuuri has a lingering _oh-no-he’s-pretty-when-he’s-sad_ moment, because Yuuri is very much an asshole in high-emotion situations. This is precisely why Yuuri tries not to open up to people. If his lack of self-esteem isn’t a turn-off, the low empathy levels in inappropriate contexts certainly will be. Oh, well. What can you do, right?

‘He’s fine. He’ll be fine, they gave him a shot and gave me ten kernels of self-heating medication and told me not to take him on too many walks for at least a week…’ Viktor’s rambling. He stops, looks at Yuuri, and presses his lips together. Yuuri reaches down to lay a hand on Makkachin’s head. Makkachin licks his palm. ‘What happened?’

Yuuri breathes. In, out. He keeps his hands buried in Makkachin’s thick fur. There’s a sharp rustling outside the door, though Viktor doesn’t seem to notice that.

‘I don’t remember anything.’ He laughs. ‘But it felt… it was bad. It was really bad.’

‘Oh, Yuuri,’ Viktor says, and reaches for him. This time Yuuri lets himself be drawn into the circle of Viktor’s arms, and he tucks his face on Viktor’s shoulder.

‘Open up!’ Yuri Plisetsky’s voice yells from outside, and Viktor’s head flicks up. He unlocks the apartment’s front door with a swift beckoning gesture and Yuri stomps into the living room, pausing only to kick off his shoes, heedless of where they land.

Little Yuri brushes back his hair, which is long enough to be tied up now, and glares down at them both. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

Yuuri hiccups. He wipes his eyes. They must be really red by now. ‘What are you doing here?’

Seeing Yuuri’s face in full for the first time, Yuri narrows his eyes. Viktor clears his throat almost apologetically. ‘I texted him,’ Viktor explains.

Yuuri didn’t know Viktor had little Yuri’s number, or that Yuri knew Viktor’s address. He didn’t even know Yuri was aware of the audition. He wonders what else he’s been too self-absorbed to notice.

Yuri throws himself down on the sofa, on Yuuri’s other side, and puts his feet up on the coffee table. ‘Well, what did Minako say?’

Yuuri doesn’t want to think about what passed hardly an hour ago — he wants to forget about this, forget everything that’s happened and move on — but he can’t back down under Yuri’s ferocious gaze. He forces his memory into the tight hole that closes around his chest.

‘She said…’ Yuuri knots his fists in the hem of his shirt. Yuri drapes his arm over the back of the sofa and doesn’t stop looking at Yuuri. ‘She said she’d contact me later.’ His eyelids are burning.

Neither Yuri nor Viktor say anything for a moment. Then Viktor laughs.

‘ _Vitya!_ ’ Yuri hisses, and Yuuri raises his head as Yuri jerks off the sofa in disgust. He stalks out of the living room, somehow managing to make the line of his back look disapproving. Makkachin follows Yuri into the kitchen, which Yuri only disdainfully tolerates. ‘I’m going to make tea!’ Yuri shouts over his shoulder.

Viktor lets him go with a wave.

Yuuri’s lungs are beginning to close up again. ‘What is it?’ he whispers. He’s never been one to hold off on bad news; he’s gotten this far on the strength of his pride alone. _Just get it over with, just finish this and then you never have to think about it again._

Viktor lets out a long breath. ‘ _Yuuri_ ,’ he says, warm and close and undeniably fond, ‘Minako doesn’t mince words. If she says she’ll be in touch with you, that means she’ll be in touch with you. To draw up your contract. And introduce you to Lilia. And let you know when you can start showing up for off-air trainings.’

Yuuri’s head stops spinning.

His mind is completely blank. He’s so, so tired. And then, _inexplicably_ , this makes him start crying again, and Viktor’s eyes widen in alarm. Viktor reaches over Yuuri’s head to grab a tissue box from the shelf and curves his other hand over Yuuri’s cheek, thumb stroking the jut of Yuuri’s cheekbone, brushing away the wetness that slicks into long-worn tear tracks.

‘Yuuri?’ Viktor bends closer, frowning; he looks lost for words. That’s okay. Yuuri would be, too, in this situation. He feels so stupid. ‘Don’t… please don’t cry. What’s wrong?’

Yuuri sniffles. His nose is running, which is humiliating. Viktor hands him a tissue. ‘I’m sorry for breaking down for no reason, I’m sorry for being embarrassing, I’m sorry I’m like this —’

‘Yuuri!’ Viktor shakes him, not gently, and Yuuri falls silent. ‘Shut up.’

Yuuri catches his breath, shoulders still heaving. He can hear a clatter of saucepans from the kitchen — Yuri is definitely not just making tea — and he wants, badly, to go to sleep and not wake up for another three days at least. His lungs are aching.

He blows his nose with the tissue Viktor has offered him. The noise is shamefully loud. Viktor doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

‘You’re not exactly awesome in the pep talk department, are you?’

‘I got a 96 on the TOEFL,’ Viktor responds absently, and for some reason that makes Yuuri lie back on the cushions and laugh and laugh until he hasn’t got any air left.

Viktor gazes at Yuuri in mild confusion, till at last the small wrinkle between his eyebrows smoothes out and his eyes soften considerably.

It’s amazing. From the kitchen, Yuuri can make out the bright sizzling of a skillet, and Viktor turns around to stare in that direction for a few seconds. No wonder Makkachin hasn’t left little Yuri’s side. Yuuri is at his worst, which Viktor has seen countless times over the past year. From presentations to papers to the simple weight of days of running late for classes and professors who look at him too long — sloppy, red-nosed, red-eyed, mucus probably running out of his nose and which Yuuri hastily wipes away with the tissue. Viktor still loves him.

‘Yura!’ Viktor calls. Yuuri doesn’t think those two are capable of talking to each other at normal volume. ‘Are you making pirozhki?’

‘Yes,’ Yuri answers impatiently, slamming the fridge door. ‘Where do you keep your cabbage?’

‘Did I say you could use my kitchen for that?’

‘Did I say I cared?’

‘That’s true,’ Viktor agrees. He lets his hand slide down and brushes Yuuri’s mouth lightly with the pad of his thumb. ‘Be sure to make some for me, and not just Yuuri, okay?’

Yuuri rests his cheek on the cool leather of the sofa.

Viktor takes Yuuri’s hands. His fingers are long and smooth, and Yuuri moves to interlace them with his own. Viktor blinks. His tongue peeks out to swipe over his bottom lip.

‘Yuuri,’ he begins tentatively, ‘you don’t have to accept the offer if you don’t want to.’

‘I do want to.’ Yuuri hesitates. He tightens his grasp a little, which Viktor allows. Viktor doesn’t take his eyes off Yuuri, even for a second. ‘I want to dance in the same arena as you.’

A brief pause; and then Viktor lets out his breath in a low, hushed sound. His mouth quirks. Yuuri smiles.

‘You keep finding new ways to surprise me, my Yuuri.’ Viktor leans his head against the back of the sofa, too, to get a better look at Yuuri’s face. Yuuri hums his acknowledgement. ‘They — I mean, we go on tour, you know. Hardly ever the same place twice.’

Yuuri closes his eyes. His head feels very heavy, and he’s never been so secure. ‘Okay,’ he says without opening his eyes. ‘I don’t mind.’

Viktor leans in and kisses him.

It catches Yuuri off guard, even though he should’ve seen this coming, to be honest. He makes a soft tiny noise that Viktor swallows, and lets his mouth be coaxed open. Viktor looks sharp from a distance but he’s really very soft. He smells nice. Yuuri curls his fingers into Viktor’s hair. If Viktor was trying to surprise him, it worked. Yuuri’s been thoroughly outdone. He never stood a chance.

Behind them, Yuri Plisetsky says: ‘I can already see that the next ten years of my life are going to be hell.’

* * *

Viktor takes his revenge on cool Saturday mornings when he knows Chris is sleeping in. Yuuri, dressed in one of Viktor’s shirts and walking a little bit funny, makes eye contact with Chris’ new boyfriend over the espresso machine and goes red to the ears.

Chris, for his part, _adores_ Yuuri. This is just as Viktor predicted.

‘Does this mean I can’t walk around naked anymore?’ asks Chris, leaning seductively in the doorway to the kitchen. He’s in the middle of scooping slices of French toast onto four plates with a spatula. Chris insists on calling that eggy bread — since French toast, according to Chris, is not from France. Viktor points out that Chris isn’t from France either even if he does speak French and by the way, some of the things Chris says on the phone make _Viktor_ wish he didn’t understand French, can you hear me, Stéphane?

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Viktor replies, chin in hand. At the other end of the kitchen table, Yuuri blushes.

* * *

It’s the day of the full dress rehearsal and Viktor hasn’t had time to get a new costume made, but that’s okay. He can wear one of his old costumes. Nobody at the Festival will mind. Pink morning light filters through the blinds, and Viktor lies watching it seep from window to bedsheets to floor, pooling in the spot just below his desk. Yuuri’s curled underneath the covers between Viktor and Makkachin, a heavy, warm-limbed tangle of honey. Viktor waits, breathing in the soft grounding scent of Yuuri’s skin and shampoo. Slowly the day comes into focus beneath his eyelids.

He shakes Yuuri awake, very gentle.

‘Hmm?’ Yuuri murmurs, nuzzling deeper into the cocoon of blankets. Yuuri’s a late sleeper; it takes Makkachin’s and Viktor’s combined efforts, as well as Yuri blowing up both their phones, to get him out of bed some mornings. Especially when he’s had a long night. Viktor shifts and puts the backs of his cold fingers on Yuuri’s cheek, and Yuuri jolts from his sleep with a yelp.

‘I hate you,’ he complains, shoving his feet between Viktor’s ankles in retaliation. Yuuri’s toes are icy and they end up with Viktor rolling out of bed, Makkachin raising his head in surprised pleasure at the noise. Yuuri only gets a moment to enjoy his newfound dominion before Viktor grabs the blankets from the foot of the bed and drags them off him.

‘Okay, okay! I’m up!’ Yuuri laughs. His hair’s sticking up everywhere and falling into his eyes, and there’s a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. He’s beautiful. ‘Why are we getting up?’

‘I have something to show you.’ Viktor bends over him, lips nearly brushing Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri — pliant, sepia-soft — leans instinctively into the curve of Viktor’s arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get to the arena early, before rehearsal starts. We can shower together to save time.’

‘Sure,’ says Yuuri, unconvinced, ‘to _save time_ ,’ but he follows Viktor sleepily to the bathroom. An hour later they’re standing on the ground floor of the arena, Yuuri having struggled with the scanner for a good three minutes till Viktor forcibly held his wrist (with its new membership tattoo) in place. Viktor taps a finger against his lips, thinking.

‘Can you put the music on and then run down here fast enough to see me start?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, of course,’ Yuuri says, slightly taken aback. He rubs the back of his hand over his eyes and tugs up the hood of his black-and-red Hasetsu jacket. ‘I’ll set a timer.’

Yuuri’s not long in the control room; he is very good at his job. He comes down through the aisle with his hands in his pockets, head tilted, a faint smile on his lips, while Viktor is strapping on his foot-guards. Viktor can land four jumps in combination now every time he tries. The same height, each time. The same distance. Within a breath of the hanging overhead lights. He can go up and _up_ , unerring in his focussed precision — and come back down to Yuuri.

Yuuri settles himself in one of the seats in the front row, looking small and a little bit dazzled, still. Viktor gets to his feet and heaves himself away, soaring midway across the arena into his starting pose with a fluid, powerful kick of both legs. Yuuri’s mouth comes open involuntarily; his eyes are dark and soft.

The flutter of flute and strings lingers in the space between them, floating softly from the speakers before it slides into the rich Italian of vocals. Viktor smiles at him.

‘Don’t take your eyes off me.’

 

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

_Tokyo Light Palace, Japan, 2019_

* * *

‘Are you going to push me?’ Fujiwara Hikaru asks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. On the floor beneath them, a dozen mirrored versions of little Yuri eye them in contempt.

Yuuri smiles. He glances at his reflection in the domeside opposite. ‘Trust me?’

‘I trust you,’ the boy agrees readily enough. His hand snakes up to worry at the shoulder-length, layered brown hair that curls round his neck. ‘I hope you’ll give me some warning before you do it, though I feel like that defeats the pur —’

Yuuri shoves him off the ledge. In the box seat near the front of the audience, Viktor laughs.

‘ _For fuck’s sake!_ ’

**Author's Note:**

> some tidbits that did not make it into the fic proper:  
> \- all legally manufactured potions are brightly coloured to stop them from being used to roofie people  
> \- yes, there totally are EMTs, military personnel, etc. who use flight magic for specialised pararescue missions. otabek wants to be a pilot  
> \- yuuri comes from a family of second-gen immigrants and won a full ride to study sound engineering at one of the best schools in the country. this is background info you will never hear from yuuri himself, despite the fact that his entire neighbourhood and extended family, even (especially) distant uncles and aunts back in japan who have never met yuuri in their lives, are extremely proud of him. minako & yuuri & celestino in this ‘verse are the Formidable Partnership of the future (minako & viktor already are one). viktor and yuri plisetsky are presumably still russian citizens. i don’t know how visas work  
> \- yakov’s café used to close at 10pm. yakov created a night shift specifically for viktor. viktor does not know this. yakov will not tell him

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ascent by kevystel [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546354) by [Rhea314 (Rhea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea314)




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